


In Loco Mortis

by AzarDarkstar



Series: Desperate Measures [4]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Complete, Dark, F/M, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Torture, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsession, One-Sided Relationship, Spark Bond, Spark Weirdness, pretending Revenge of the Fallen and Dark of the Moon never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 102,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzarDarkstar/pseuds/AzarDarkstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In place of death, there is life. But Sam Witwicky must decide how much trouble and frustration his own is worth. Loyalty has limits. So does friendship. Prequel to Intersection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Primary Colors

Samuel J. Witwicky was not average by any stretch of the imagination. Once perhaps but definitely not anymore. Few on earth had experienced or done the things he had. Had been chased by monsters, only to defeat them. Had bleed and laughed with those older than civilization itself. Had all but died and then be reborn.

Sam also happened to not be human. Not any more. He wasn’t entirely certain what to classify himself as; Cybertronian didn’t fit since he had never been there. Nor was he officially an Autobot, far too young for such a thing. The suggestion alone was enough to leave Ratchet in conniptions, Bee not far behind.

Transformer worked, he supposed. Or youngling. Minibot.

A slight shudder at the last one. Eternity spent as an ant among giants, forever skittering around their feet in an attempt not to get squished. While he would undoubtedly survive such a thing, it wouldn’t be pleasant. Especially the part where he’d have to explain to Ratchet. Megatron would be more merciful, not to mention quieter.

At the moment, Sam had few worries over that particular happening. He was currently perched upon one of the numerous berths in the medbay, well out of stepping ranging. Truthfully, Sam was rather preoccupied, studying the play of light over his hand. The metal of it was dark, the deepest black possible. Not at all glossy or shiny like the paint on a car. Simply dark, absorbing all light and giving none back. But purple and blue tints appeared and shifted as he waved his hand back and forth. A few hints of color on an otherwise monochrome body.

The only other contrast was his optics, bright and vivid green. Highly unusual according to First Aid. Wheeljack thought it was due to his bizarre exposure to the Allspark. Bee simply called them beautiful; everyone else seemed to agree. Sideswipe even teased that his brother had optic-envy. An accusation the exceptionally vain Sunstreaker had yet to refute.

Personally, Sam found them unnerving. He had problems meeting his own optics whenever he looked in a reflective surface. A rather unfortunate occurrence with so many shiny Autobots running around. Though the minibot was grateful that he no longer had a reason to look in the mirror every morning. Not having to clean his face or comb his hair seemed to diminish that particular need.

A bot. A youngling. No longer human. Sam who wasn’t Sam. No longer made of flesh and blood, instead metal and gears. Servos in place of muscles. A processor instead of a brain. No heart. No eyes. But a spark, brilliant as the sun.

Sometimes, Sam wondered how he hadn’t gone mad with it all. Though Percy – my name is Perceptor – had assured him there was only a small possibility of that. Something to do with gradual system adjustments and a slow transition from human norms. Probably why he still couldn’t see in the dark worth a slag.

Poor Ratchet and Wheeljack had agonized over what had caused such a spontaneous change in the first place. Of course with no answers. Sam, however, knew but remained silent. Nothing sort of Primus himself would ever make him confess Bumblebee’s sin aloud. Loyalty had its limits, but for now, Sam was too busy trying to adjust. Learning to live with his new semi-shiny self.

The youngling started as Ratchet banged into the medbay, face plates twisted into a snarl. He huffed by Sam without even a wave, mumbling about “slagging twins” with various curses intermixed. He stormed into his office but was back out within a few minutes, still sporting a snarl. The medic stomped up to Sam, somehow managing not to slam his tools on the nearby table.

“Er… Hi, Ratchet.” Sam shifted on the berth. “Bad day?”

Ratchet let out a whoosh of air. “Sam. And no, not worse than usual. Just those fraggers again.” He pulled out an instrument that was rather unfamiliar. Something with a wicked metal point on one end.

“The twins?” Sam questioned as he fought the urge to jerk back.

The older mech absentmindedly set his tool back down, selecting a much smaller one with a blunt edge. “How ever did you know?” He leaned forward, his strange instrument coming a bit too close to Sam’s face before moving to his chest.

“Um… lucky guess?” he ventured and tried not to fidget at the odd sensation.

Ratchet humphed. “Lie back.” He accompanied the command with a pushing hand on Sam’s shoulder.

The youngling took the hint, the back of his head making a low plunk against the metal of the berth. Ratchet’s fingers were unsurprisingly soft, almost a caress against Sam’s not-skin as he examined the surface circuits and parts in his joints. His fuel lines were probed in a similar fashion, but Sam shuttered his optics as the medic scanned over him with a variety of colored lights. Ratchet then ran a leading hand over his outer surface, pausing for a moment to hover by his optics before very lightly scanning them with a touch that would’ve left most of his patients speechless. The mech for all that he yelled and thumped the others was always gentle with Sam. His voice and tone might be harsh but in degrees softer than to anyone else. And he had never once hit him with a wrench.

A part of Sam wondered if it was out of pity. If it was because of his origins. Or that fact that he was an orphan in all but name. That he had no real family to speak of besides them, even his one-time girlfriend now gone. The Lennoxes tried, but he was too far beyond their reach now.

Or if it was because of what he had become. If Ratchet – like the others – saw him as a youngling. A halfhearted replacement for the ones they had lost so long ago.

That morbid thought was interrupted as First Aid entered the medbay, degrees quieter than his mentor. He walked over to them, normal mask missing but a pleasant smile on his face.

“Sam. Boss.”

“Hey, Aid,” Sam greeted by turning his head.

Ratchet immediately turned it back. “Keep still. You know it interferes with the scan.”

Sam fought the urge to squirm. It didn’t help that First Aid was practically smirking at him from behind Ratchet’s shoulder. He really wished that he could roll his eyes, rather difficult now that he lacked them. Not to mention, optics simply didn’t move that way.

How frustrating.

Ratchet stepped back then and allowed his patient to finally sit up. Sam did so slowly, twisting his head this way and that. Scans always made him feel strange, like bugs had been crawling across his skin, only not as pleasant. And the urge to scratch was almost overwhelming. But Aid caught his hand before he could, optics flickering to his boss. Ratchet seemed to have missed that, too busy mumbling to himself in low tones as he reordered his instruments.

Sam gave him a sheepish grin. “Well, what do you think, doc?” he redirected.

“I’m not a doctor,” Ratchet responded automatically as he glanced up. “I’m a medic. Get it right. Especially if you wish to continue learning from me.”

Sam wisely refrained from saying that First Aid was the one to normally help him. Before her death, Ratchet had usually been too busy arguing with Mikaela to teach him much of anything. Sam, in the meantime, had often wandered off to speak with the medic’s assistant. Many an argument had been weathered at Aid’s side, trying his best not to laugh as Ratchet lectured and forced his human student to unlearn everything she knew about earth machinery. Even as she vehemently retorted that they weren’t all that different.

The thought of Mikaela was a pang in his spark. And had he still been human, he would’ve swallowed passed the sudden lump in his throat. Sam instead made a noncommittal noise but otherwise remained silent.

“You’ll live,” Ratchet pronounced. “Your joints are still stiff, but that’s normal in the newly built.”

“Yeah.” Sam flexed and curled his fingers as he snapped his mind back to the here and now. “It’s getting better. I’m almost as flexible as I was before.”

Aid took his hand and gently pried it open. “Does it hurt any?”

“Not really.” Sam shrugged, the metal of his chassis objecting to the motion.

Ratchet was quickly to lean down. But Sam shook him off.

“It’s fine. Really,” he added at their disbelieving looks. “I just forget that I can’t move that way anymore. At least not yet.”

Neither bought it, but both refrained from comment. Instead, First Aid tried a different track.

“Have you talked to Smokescreen lately?” he asked with a false sense of casualness.

Sam sighed, a distinctly human behavior that most of the bots seemed to have perfected. “Yeah. Hard not to with the way he corners me all the time.” He had the sudden recollection of the blue and white mech catching up with him in the rec room and had to repress a shudder.

“It’s for your own good,” Ratchet admonished with a curt look. “The transition from human to our kind is not an easy one. It will help to have someone there to speak with.”

Sam could feel the metal plates on his arm twitch in annoyance, a habit he had already picked up from Optimus. “I don’t need a shrink. There’s nothing wrong with my brain, new form or not.”

He watched as the older medic forcefully bit back a retort. A not so small part of the minibot twinging as he did.

“I didn’t say that,” Ratchet all but snapped, tone very exasperated. “It’s merely normal to be… confused. Unsure. It has only been a few orns since your transformation. All of this is still very new. You’re only recently released from my care. I don’t want you to have come back here to stay.”

There was bait, but Sam didn’t bite. “I’d be worried if I wasn’t worried. Or confused.” He glanced away. “But I am. And I have plenty of other people to talk to.”

“Bee and Jazz’s in-stasis body hardly qualify as professional help,” Aid inserted with a perceptive lilt. “And yes, we know you’ve been sneaking in to see him again.”

Sam started to reply, but Ratchet cut him off.

“No, Bluestreak doesn’t count either. You can hardly get a word in edgewise. And that’s on a good day.” His voice was a mixture of annoyance and concern, something only a medical professional could perfect.

The youngling defended, “I talk to Jack. And Prowl.” He mentally patted himself on the back for that one.

It was obvious that Ratchet was battling the urge to hit something. “You just go to watch Wheeljack blow himself up.” He crossed his arms over his chassis. “And Prowl has the emotional range of a toaster for this sort of thing.”

Sam couldn’t argue those points. “Optimus?” he finally suggested.

Ratchet just glared. The minibot grimaced.

“We’re not doing this to embarrass you, Sam,” Aid cut in diplomatically. “Or to make you uncomfortable. We just want to help.” He patted the smaller bot on the shoulder but noticed him wince.

The youngling shifted away. “I know, but…”

“You can talk to us, if you’d prefer,” First Aid offered. “We’d be more than happy to listen.” His face was earnest and open. Honest.

But something inside Sam told him to reject the offer. Too much of a chance. Too big an opportunity to let something slip.

Sam leaned even further from his touch. “I… um… well… Maybe Smokescreen’s not that bad.”

Aid almost seemed crestfallen as the two medics traded a look over Sam’s head. A wordless exchange passed between them in seconds, not even needing the comm. system. And it didn’t take Prowl to notice the way Sam shifted uncomfortably on the berth.

“Yes,” Ratchet allowed, “but it helps to actually talk to him.” He thankfully didn’t mention the last two times Sam had run away.

“I will,” the minibot promised, already thinking of a way to get out of this.

But the older mech was on to him. “Oh, you will. In here. Right after you online next. I’ll make sure that Smokescreen is here, too.”

There was finality in his voice. Firm and unrelenting. The tone that made his patients simply lie down and let their punishment commence. Sam didn’t even think to argue. It was impossible when Ratchet got that particular gleam in his optics. And even the twins listened to him when he was like this. It was better to simply submit. Easier that way. Not to mention less painful.

That decided, Ratchet pulled out yet another unnameable instrument. “Stay sitting up,” he ordered as he poked and prodded something in Sam’s abdomen. “Hm…” He poked again and made an odd noise, like a hum mixed with an exhale. “Just as I thought. Your transformation cog is as stiff as your joints.”

“Is that bad?” Sam could feel himself tremble ever-so-slightly. Most likely a reaction to the prodding and not psychological.

First Aid shook his head. “No. Just expected.”

“Too early for it to be fully functional,” Ratchet responded belatedly. “It’s exactly as it should be. Don’t screw it up.” He shook his finger in Sam’s face.

The youngling really wished he could roll his eyes. “Will I ever be able to transform?”

“Of course. You’re simply too young yet,” Aid inserted before his mentor could reply. “Just give it some time. You should be able in a few earth years, probably a decade to be on the safe side.”

Sam nearly goggled at him. “A decade? That long?”

Ratchet let out a rush of air from his intakes in the Autobot equivalent of a snort. “Be glad it’s that short. If you were Cybertronian born, it would still take vorns to get you to that level. And you wouldn’t even have the option of ground-based or flyer. The fact that you were human and nearly grown seems to have short-cut the process some.”

Sam made a face. First Aid laughed.

“Flyer… right.” The youngling folded his arms over his chest, much to Ratchet’s displeasure.

Aid, however, was amused. “Silverbolt and his brothers still on your case about that?” he questioned slyly. “You don’t have to be a flyer, you know.”

“Oh, but they’d love that,” Sam replied with irritation. “Keep going on about how fun it is and that I’d love the freedom of the sky. Besides, what ground-based form could I take? I’m big for a motorcycle but a bit too little for most cars. And Skyfire thinks I could pull of a small helicopter.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “Even he’s in on it now?” He glanced at his tools, seeming to be contemplating which would leave the biggest dent in the errant scientist’s head.

Sam, sensing danger, was quick to correct him. “No! No, he was just giving me some possibilities. I asked him want he thought. Skyfire merely made a few suggestions.” He tapped his fingers together. “Bee still out in the hallway?” the minibot redirected, even though he already knew the answer.

Something strange flickered across Ratchet’s face, but it was Aid who answered.

“He was when I came in.” The mech shifted, head cocked to the side.

“And he was wise to stay out there,” Ratchet added gruffly. “Stupid glitch knows better than to interrupt my examinations.” He glanced at Sam, expression softening. “Alright. On with you. Go on. Get out.”

The youngling was scrabbling off the berth in an instant. He was half-way to the door before the others could even speak.

“You. Smokescreen. In here. First thing. Don’t forget. Or I’ll haul you in here personally.” Ratchet threatened, “Don’t make me have to weld you down. I promise that I’ll enjoy it more than you.” He smiled at the mere prospect.

Sam just waved over his shoulder and was then out the door. The two medics only had a brief glimpse of yellow in the corridor before Bumblebee and his charge were gone. But they stared after for several long moments, optics thoughtful. Never knowing that Sam had doubled back and was even now standing outside the medbay.

“How are things really?” Aid asked very softly when he finally looked away from the closed door.

Ratchet let out a whoosh of air. “Physically? As well as can be expected. It’s not like I have a baseline to judge by.” He shook his head. “Mentally? That’s an entirely different manner. Sam really does need to talk to someone. He’s been through too much and refused help for too long.”

“His parents. Mikaela. She hasn’t even been dead a year… and then this?” Aid shuttered his optics.

The older mech was in complete agreement. “From an organic to one of us. And Allspark built? The first since the original thirteen. That alone would be enough to make him extraordinary. Never mind everything else.” He turned to his former student.

“Like the fact that he is the first known sparkling in well over a hundred vorns?” First Aid suggested.

“More than that,” his boss corrected. “Much more.” One hand rested on the berth in front of him.

“How do you think the others will react?” Aid questioned. “Mirage and Hound aren’t that far out. They should be here in several orns, and Kup’s ship is right behind them.”

Ratchet considered. “Like the rest of us, I suppose. Excited. Awed.” His hand gripped the berth tight enough to leave finger indents. “Perhaps more so. They didn’t see Sam as he was before. Don’t know what he’s lost.”

“They’ll only see a youngling. _A new youngling_.” Aid was as disturbed by the thought as the implication itself.

“Maybe. Maybe not. We – the ones of us already here – seemed to have handled it well enough.”

First Aid glanced at him, face plates tightening. “But we all know what happened. Saw it happen. And even then, it’s not like we can explain it. I’m not certain how well the others could take it. Particularly when they learn that Sam--”

“Don’t even say it!” Ratchet cut in, gaze flickering to the door. “Best if we keep that to ourselves. Especially since Sam doesn’t know yet. I haven’t even told Swoop or Wheeljack. And we’re not even sure. There is still a possibility we were wrong.” He slowly released his grip on the berth, hand clenching spasmodically.

The younger mech looked at him with an unreadable expression. “Are we ever going to tell Sam?”

“Not until we’re certain. Absolutely certain.” Ratchet glanced away. “We hardly need everyone to get all worked up if it turns out to be a false positive. Besides, there’s always a chance some of them survived.”

“We can certainly hope,” Aid replied with complete honesty

“That’s about all we can do,” Ratchet admitted at last. “Just hope for the best.”

\-----

Even after all this time, Sam was still amazed by the base the Autobots had built in the desert of Nevada. Or rather, under the desert of Nevada. Metal woven together like a tapestry of angles and colors with enough rooms to accommodate their ever expanding population. And all that more impressive for the lack of materials. They’d had to convert or refine most of what the government had given them, but the result was more than worth it. Though how something so large could be considered cozy was beyond him. Yet another baffling thing he’d yet to understand.

The room he shared with First Aid was along similar lines, not extravagant but suiting their needs. At first, Sam hadn’t exactly been pleased at the idea of a roommate, especially since he managed to avoid one in college, but the necessity was rather apparent and enforced by Ratchet. It wouldn’t do for him to have a sudden meltdown during the night with no one the wiser, after all.

Bee, of course, had immediately volunteered to share. But the head medic himself had vetoed that idea. Putting their two youngest together, one of whom was little more than the Cybertronian equivalent of an infant, might sound fine on the outside. However, Ratchet had only released Sam under the auspices that he be constantly monitored, and Bee wasn’t exactly known for his medical expertise or rational thought when it came to his charge. Besides, the Protectobots had an odd mech out anyway, so in Prowl’s twisted but oh-so-logical mind, it made perfect sense.

Still, Sam supposed it could be worse. They could have put him in with Red Alert. Or Grimlock. Or Cliffjumper. Or the twins. Or Smokescreen. Or any of the Aerialbots.

At least Aid was quiet. And his stuff didn’t have the tendency to randomly explode – Wheeljack. And he didn’t talk Sam’s nonexistent ears off – Bluestreak. Or have a shrine to himself and about ten thousand bottles of car polish – Tracks. Or mumble nonsense words during recharge – Ironhide and Skyfire. Or stay up all night writing scientific theories on his walls in washable marker – Perceptor. Or have so much crammed into his room that he could hardly fit – Trailbreaker. Or insomnia so bad that he had worn a groove in the floor from pacing – Prowl and Ratchet.

So yeah, it could have been a lot worse. Besides, if Bumblebee had his way, the arrangement would only be temporary. But Sam himself wasn’t so certain. He didn’t know if he could live fulltime with Bee, not after what he had done. It was bad enough just seeing him every day, having to put on a smile and seem pleased.

But he shook that thought away as he climbed onto his berth, grateful that Wheeljack had made him one proportional to his size. He was offline in seconds, a normal occurrence since his transition and apparently for younglings in general. Unfortunately, his rest was short-lived.

It was always strange to wake up with someone hovering over. Especially when it was pitch black and the only thing visible were a pair of very bright, blue optics. As such, it was no surprise that Sam jolted out of recharge with a yelp. He fumbled for a moment, wincing when his limbs refused to fully cooperate. But at the sound of a chuckle, he paused.

That wasn’t First Aid. Despite how often he checked on Sam during recharge, the minibot was still aware enough to know. And this certainly wasn’t his usual m.o. He at least turned on a light first.

Sam peered out and took a stab in the dark. “Bee?” The question was soft and sleep-fogged. “Is that you?”

There was the noise of someone stepping back. “Yes, Sam.”

“I… I thought you were on patrol,” the youngling mumbled as he sat up. “Shouldn’t you be on patrol?”

Bee shifted guiltily but didn’t answer.

“What’re you doing here?” Sam asked instead, swinging around to face his visitor and checking his inner chronometer. “It’s the middle of the night.” A part of him wondered where his roommate was but figured the medbay was the likely culprit.

His friend was completely unperturbed. “I’m merely checking on you before I make my report, Sam. It’s not a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was.” Sam flexed his joints to remove the lingering stiffness. “As you can see, I’m just fine. A bit tired though.” He studied Bee in the darkness. Well, as much of him as he could make out. “Was there anything else you wanted?” he prompted and heard Bee move again.

“No.”

Another minute or two ticked by in silence. Sam still strained to see in the dimness, internally cursing his still all-too-human vision. He could barely make out Bee’s outline somewhere between his berth and the exit, but that was about it.

“Well, goodnight then,” Sam said at last, having had enough. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Of course.” But Bee still didn’t move, just watching. “Tomorrow.”

Sam twitched under the scrutiny. Though honestly, he should be used to it by now.

“Night,” the youngling repeated and bonelessly plopped back on his berth.

Bee thankfully took the hint. “Goodnight.” He back away but hesitated by the door. “Everything I do is for your best interest, Sam,” he murmured softly. “I hope you remember that.”

With that said, he turned and left. Sam stared after him, and he shifted on his berth but couldn’t get settled. Simply thinking. Remembering. Spark coiling in a distinctly uncomfortable fashion.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I honestly wonder.”

But there was no one but himself to hear.


	2. Paint by Numbers

To say that he wasn’t loath to see Smokescreen was a bit of an understatement. If by understatement one meant that First Aid all but marched him into the medbay first thing. The Audi was already there and waiting with an agreeable if expectant smile. His door-wings were at a loose and flexible angle, not at all the stiff and rigid posture Prowl usually employed or the cheerful spread of Bluestreak. Rather something in the middle. Like the bot himself.

He motioned Sam over and pointed to Ratchet’s office, the door wide open and beckoning. Obviously, he had chosen a closed in location to keep his patient from bolting at the first opportunity. The minibot just wondered if Smokescreen was going to lock them in, a disturbing and somewhat creepy thought. Bringing back images of Ironhide and Will and an incident Sarah Lennox still laughed about two years later.

Sam immediately shot Aid a pleading look. But the medic merely mouthed “For your own good” before his mask slid into place. A sure sign that he was trying to hid his smile. The youngling briefly considered digging in his heels but knew it was a useless venture. First Aid was easily taller than Bee and could lift him like a sack of feathers. Not to mention that Ratchet would blow a gasket if he left scuff marks on the floor again. And running away would only make them question his mental stability all that much more.

He was inside the office before he could think of another way out. Sure enough, Smokescreen locked the door behind him as he entered, though not before Aid beat a hasty retreat.

Traitor.

The minibot could only frown and fidget as his captor drew two chairs together in front of Ratchet’s desk. He sat mostly to keep Smokescreen from forcing him. Plus, with the way the chair was designed, it put him closer to optic-level. Sam had never been to a shrink before, but he half-expected Smokescreen to pull out a notepad to hide behind and say things like “I see” and “How does that make you feel?” Instead, the Audi focused his full attention on him, blue optics tracking Sam’s every movement. The fact that he didn’t even blink – not that he really need to – was rather unnerving.

Time seemed to drag on as they sat there. The youngling talked without really saying anything, and Smokescreen knew it. But he didn’t call Sam on his behavior, merely continued to watch and listen. Occasionally, he made a comment or insight but otherwise remained silent. Until he finally allowed Sam to go. Of course, that was only after the minibot fell quiet, fighting to not squirm in his seat.

Sam beat a hasty retreat as soon as his warden unlocked the door. But he could already tell that this would become a regular thing unless something changed. Like Ratchet magically having a personality change. Or Sam spontaneously turning back into a human. Perhaps a Decepticon attack. Ironhide deciding to play Assassin again with Epps. Or just Hurricane Wheeljack in all his glory.

And even better, he had to be back later so Ratchet could run even more tests. Oh, what fun!

The youngling let out a huff of air as he entered the hall. Sam walked only a few steps before he hesitated. Something Smokescreen had said stuck with him. Replayed in his mind – not processor! – like a broken record. And he couldn’t help but feel like a piece of himself was missing. Misplaced. Lost.

Four orns. It had been exactly four orns since his transformation. Two months. It was September now. With everything going on, he’d forgotten. Sam should be back at school. He should already be in class and settled in. College. Now an impossibility.

A not so small part of him wanted to throw something. Hit someone. Something. Anything.

Sam started at a sudden footstep. He jerked and glanced up. But no one was there.

“Hey, kid.”

Sam looked down then, not that the distance was that far. Standing just in front of him was a human. Somewhat tall and lean. A neatly pressed suit and a badge. Dark hair and a very twitchy smile.

It was Simmons.

“Hey yourself,” the minibot replied back as he straightened. “Visiting Red Alert?”

Simmons inclined his head. “An alien after my own heart.”

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that.” Sam managed a half-sparked grin.

Simmons’ eyes flicked to one of the numerous cameras lining the hallway. “I’m sure he already knows.” He gestured down the corridor. “I’m headed this way.”

“I’m supposed to be, too,” the youngling admitted with a sheepish tone. “Shall we?”

The man nodded and took off at a leisurely pace. His kept a wary eye on Wheeljack’s lab as they went by, but nothing in the vicinity exploded. And he relaxed when they were out of the usual blast radius. Not unusual behavior considering the number of times unwitting innocents had been caught in Jack’s ongoing war with science. The casualty count was comparable to Sunstreaker on a bad day when his paint was chipped and a minibot or three felt particularly mouthy.

“Been doing alright?” Simmons asked once they were an even safer distance away.

Sam watched him from the corner of his optic. “No real complaints. Still adjusting.”

His companion seemed to consider that response. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Fine, I guess. It’s just… weird,” he admitted. “Strange being like this.” He touched his chest… his _chassis_ with one hand. “Just odd. And hard to get used to.”

Simmons hesitated but quickly pulled himself together. “I’m sorry.”

The minibot shook his head. “Not your fault.” But Sam hedged on saying it wasn’t anyone’s fault. That wasn’t exactly true.

“Look, kid. Sam,” the man tried again. “I’m sorry about all of this. Your… you know” He made a vague motion towards Sam’s noticeably not-human form. “And your parents. And Mikaela. Especially her.”

“You’ve said that before.” The youngling felt the plates on his arm twitch.

Simmons’ expression was sad, almost melancholy. “But I figured that you might actually believe me this time.”

Silence descended between them. Punctuated only by the sound of their footsteps, Simmons’ breathing, and the soft brush of metal against metal. The pair passed by Skyfire’s lab, and a peek inside the open door showed the large flyer inside. He even looked up long enough to wave as they passed by; Sam couldn’t help but return the motion. Simmons simply watched the exchange without comment.

“So where you off to, kid?” he asked instead.

Sam was careful to keep his pace slow. “I’m supposed to help in operations today. See how everything works and all.”

“Putting you to work?” the agent suggested. “Or just an excuse for babysitting?”

“Something like that,” Sam replied, not clarifying which he meant.

“I thought they wanted you to be a doctor. Medic. Whatever.” Simmons tone was light, but there was something to his voice. Something tired and strained.

“Oh, they do,” the minibot assured him. “Apparently, they like their kids to be well-rounded.”

“You’re not their kid. Or youngling. No matter what they claim,” Simmons seemed to be directing this to the cameras around them. “You have the right to refuse. Don’t let them bully you into doing stuff you don’t want.”

“They aren’t,” Sam was quick to defend. “They’re just trying to make me feel welcome.”

“Right.” It was clear the human didn’t believe him. He stuck his hands in his pockets to keep Sam from seeing them clinch into fists.

“And that’s rich coming from you anyway,” the youngling added.

Simmons didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. “I’ve left my abduction days behind. I’m an official liaison now, and don’t you forget it.” His smile was genuine. “Quite a step up for me. Better pay.”

“And more honest,” Sam quipped.

The human jingled something in his pocket. “That it is.”

They came upon an intersection then. One way led outside. Another to the rec room and crew quarters. The last to the more official parts of their base. And Simmons turned to gaze at him, searching for something unnameable. Apparently, he seemed to find it.

The man nodded slowly. “Well, this is where I’ll leave you. Take care of yourself, kid.” Simmons gave him a mock-salute before taking the right-hand path.

Sam watched him walk away for a moment before turning to the left. He went by several rooms, many of them yet unoccupied offices or the equivalent. Waiting for residents who might never show up. Or in Jazz’s case, never wake up.

He passed Optimus’ office along the way but already knew that the large mech wasn’t there. He was away at the moment, some kind of conference with government big-wigs. Sam had a sneaking suspicion that they were meeting to talk about him and his status, especially when Bee hastily changed the subject whenever he brought it up.

The security room was next. But with the door closed, it was impossible to tell if Red Alert was present or not. Sam was inclined to think he was, secretly suspecting that the bot recharged there. Just as half the base alleged. Even Prowl. While he had yet to see this for himself, Sam was willing to believe if the first lieutenant said it was true. Practical and logical as he was, Prowl tended to be unfailingly honest and not prone to hyperbole.

Sam came to the end of the corridor, and the door to the command center slid open automatically at his arrival. The first thing he noticed was the number of unmanned consoles, at least four that he could tell. Though he wasn’t entirely certain what primary functions they represented. The other three, however, were currently occupied. But only one turned at his entrance.

“Sam,” Sideswipe greeted him warmly.

Prowl looked up then. “You arrived promptly. I take it everything is well.” He seemed pleased by this fact. “You will work with Sideswipe today, but I will be here if you have any questions.”

“Hey,” the red mech interrupted, “I can answer questions.”

The lieutenant ignored him. “If you require correct answers,” he allowed and indicated that Sam should go to his station. “I am sure you will perform adequately, however.”

Sam just walked over to Sideswipe without comment. The older bot waited as he situated himself in the free chair. He had an oddly well-practiced air around him, a strange thing considering his innate character. But Sam supposed he didn’t want to come off like a moron with a youngling watching. Or perhaps Prowl had threatened him with brig time if he acted up.

“So, Sam,” Sideswipe began with a flourish, “I’m not exactly an expert or anything. But I can still show you how it all works.” He shuttered one optic in the approximation of a wink. “This is a communications console. It has several really cool screens and rows of gleaming buttons. Try not to be distracted by the all the shininess.” And his professionalism burst like a bubble.

Sam shifted and tried his best not to peek at Fireflight, who was at the far left of the room. The Aerialbot didn’t seem to notice or care. Too busy staring at his station with something bordering on enthrallment, which probably had to do with all the sparkly symbols flashing across his screen.

The youngling repressed a shudder and gave his full attention to Sideswipe. Who had of course seen the whole thing. The Lamborghini just smirked.

“And this,” he continued, “lights up when we get a call or someone leaves a message. Think of it as a giant but oh-so-awesome phone. Complete with voice mail.”

“Does it come with caller ID?” Sam queried in a cheerful voice; Sideswipe had a knack for either annoying people or making them laugh. “What about call waiting?”

His trainer chuckled. “All in good time, my young padawan.” Sideswipe suddenly sat up straighter. “Now, you know all about the comm. lines, right?”

“They’re like personal cell phones,” the minibot answered. “You can call each other through them and talk like you would in person.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I got that part.”

“Ah…” Sideswipe waved a finger in the air. “But they have distance issues. It’s not such a big deal here on Earth because we can amplify the signal with cell towers or bounce it off satellites. But they normally have a limited range, and with multiple bots in on the conversation, it starts to get confusing. Which is why we have a comm. station. We can direct messages to anyone on our network or call them all at the same time. We can even route in signals from other people like the human government or Will Lennox.”

If Sam could, he would have raised an eyebrow, rather impressed. “I thought you said you weren’t good at this.”

“I’m no expert.” The mech shrugged. “But I picked up the slack while we were on our ship.”

Sam made a noncommittal noise. He simply watched for several minutes as Sideswipe pointed out a few more things. Nevertheless, he found his focus wavering as more time passed, drawn to the other side of the room. He couldn’t help it really, and it was distracting. Very distracting, now that he thought about it. And so very out of character.

The minibot leaned forward. “Is it just me, or are Prowl’s wing-thingies waving more than usual?” The question was casual, but Sam could feel a spark of curiosity.

Sideswipe cast a glance to his right and shrugged. “He always get antsy when Sunny is off on patrol,” he whispered in an aside. “Separation anxiety.” He stifled a snigger.

“I heard that.” Prowl hadn’t even moved.

Sam gazed at him for a second but went on like nothing had happened. “He and Tracks still chasing down Barricade?” He repressed a shiver at the thought of his last encounter with the ‘Con.

Sideswipe didn’t even miss a beat. “Yep. Right in one.”

“Geez.” The youngling ran a hand over his head. “It’s been three years. Are we sure it’s even him? Wouldn’t he have been smart enough to pick somewhere other than Las Vegas to hang out? That’s less than a hundred miles from here.”

“He willingly followed Starscream, so I doubt it.” The Lamborghini gave him a lop-sided grin. “Besides, how many cop car look-a-likes do you think are runnin’ around?”

Sam’s attention flickered to Prowl and the word “Police” emblazoned across each door. Sideswipe followed his gaze but shook his head.

“How many _other_ cop car look-a-likes?” Sideswipe gazed straight up, the closest he could get to rolling his optics. “S’not like one’s enough or anything,” he muttered in a low tone.

“I heard that, too.” Prowl continued to study the console in front of him.

The youngling laughed.

His instructor made a face. “Try being stuck on a spaceship with him for a few vorns. Him and the minibots,” Sideswipe griped. “Then, we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“Um… Aren’t I a minibot? Technically?” Sam asked with false innocence.

“I don’t hold that against you,” the Lamborghini was swift to inform him. “Sunny doesn’t either. You and Bee are probably the only ones we can stand.”

Sam instantly sobered at that name but tried his best to continue smiling; Sideswipe didn’t appear to notice how forced it was. But the console fortunately chose that instant to chirp. A part of it magically lit up as well, and Sideswipe swiveled around to get a better look.

“Hey,” he said with surprise. “It’s a message from Mirage.”

Behind them, Prowl instantly perked up and turned in his chair. “Is it a live-feed or--”

“A pre-recorded,” Sideswipe interrupted. For Sam’s benefit, he added, “Means that they made the message and beamed it back to us. It’s better and easier to do when you’re far away without anything between you and the target to boost the signal.”

The lieutenant rose then and strode over, standing directly to Sam’s right and just behind. “What does it say?”

The Lamborghini cocked his head to the side as the message played over a private channel. “When they entered the solar system, they found another Autobot. His codes and whatnot check out, so they’re bringing him in with them.” He paused to listen further. “And they found some traces of a Decepticon, too. But they’re not certain how many. Hound thinks only one or two.”

“A scout perhaps.” Prowl carefully considered the implications. “Starscream would not return without his trine-mates.”

Suddenly, something occurred to Sam. “Wait. I thought Mirage and Hound weren’t supposed to be here for like a month. If they’re that close, it shouldn’t take them that long,” he observed out loud. “How long do you think then?”

“Probably a half-orn, if that.” Sideswipe tilted his head to side but glanced over when Prowl leaned forward.

The youngling was floored. “Just a week?”

“They over-estimated,” the first lieutenant interjected. “Not unusual when venturing to unfamiliar places. Most especially in interstellar travel.” He studied the screen in front of him, an approximation of their trajectory. “They appear to be just between the eighth and ninth planets.”

Sam gave him a strange look. “We don’t have nine planets.”

“Pluto,” Prowl corrected. “Though the last two do switch in ranking due to their orbits.”

“But Pluto’s not a planet anymore,” Sam commented in a tone reminiscent of Sideswipe or Bee at his worst. “Hasn’t been for a while now.”

The Lamborghini grinned. “Got ya there, Prowl.”

A door-wing twitched. “So he does.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Did Mirage say anything else?”

“Nothin’ much. Just a few greetings to pass along.” Sideswipe made an indistinct gesture.

“Very well then.” Prowl moved back to his console. “Carry on.”

Sideswipe gazed at him for a few seconds but shook his head and turned back around. “Typical.” At Sam’s surprise expression, he went on, “Don’t mind him. Just Prowl being Prowl.”

“I see.” But he really didn’t.

Sideswipe didn’t comment. He merely returned his attention to his own console, picking up where he had left off before the disturbance. Sam followed as best he could, though it wasn’t really all that difficult. His mind was simply on other things.

He was dismissed by Prowl not too long after that, and the youngling made his not-long-enough trek back to the medbay for his scheduled appointment. Ratchet wasn’t there when he arrived or in his office. Not all that surprising this time of day. But instead of waiting around like he probably should, Sam walked over to the door in the near corner. It opened after a minute, and he easily slipped inside. However, he wasn’t alone.

Jazz was lying on a berth in the middle of the room, arms placed at his sides and optics shuttered. He almost appeared asleep by human reckoning, though to any bot that was clearly not the case. The once energetic mech wasn’t exactly alive, but he wasn’t dead either. Merely some strange Cybertronian in-between. Similar to suspended animation or stasis. Humans didn’t really have an equivalent. A coma was close but not the same as Aid explained it. His spark was there but not. More like dispersed energy that they needed to draw back to form a whole. Shards of a spark they had to piece together.

The entire matter and any processes involved were a bit beyond Sam’s understanding. More than a bit to be perfectly honest. Even Aid and Swoop struggled to keep up when the others went off on scientific tangents, rather expected when Perceptor was involved. It was reasonable then that the rest of them were left behind in the dirt.

Jazz wasn’t the only one in the room though. Bluestreak was present as well, half-in and half-out of the chair permanently placed beside Jazz’s berth.

The bot, who had been speaking in a low murmur, glanced up when Sam entered and paused for a fraction of a second but smiled. “Hi, Sam. Here for a visit, too? I haven’t seen you in awhile. How have you been? Bee says you’ve been busy helping Ratchet and in ops. I can understand that since there’s just so much to learn. It must be hard being a medic, not like a gunner. I just point and shoot. Well, aiming’s involved, too.” He considered even as he talked. “And waiting for a target. And tracking. And a few other things. Maybe it’s not that easy, after all. But still easier than being a medic. Just so much stuff to put back together and fix.” If Blue were human, he likely would have fainted from lack of oxygen by this point.

It took the youngling a moment to decipher that into something resembling a normal conversation. Thankfully, Bluestreak had learned to put in pauses at regular intervals. Little opportunities and the only chance for others to get in a word edgewise.

“Just visiting until Ratchet gets back. I have been busy. Yeah, there’s a lot to learn. And you?” Sam inquired in return. As he waited for an answer, he hoisted himself up on Jazz’s berth, perching on the end.

Blue titled his head from side to side. “Me? I’m fine. Just fine. Nothing wrong here. Maybe a little tired. I just got off patrol with Cliffjumper. He was in a bad mood, but I can’t understand why at all. Not at all. The drive through the desert was nice and peaceful. And the sunset was great. I didn’t know those kinds of colors existed here naturally. Very pretty. I’m sure Sunstreaker would have loved it.”

“Maybe he saw it, too,” the minibot suggested. “I’m sure they have nice sunsets in Vegas.”

His friend nodded very quickly at this. “I bet they do. I was just telling Jazz all about it and my patrol. Nothing really happened. Except some birds landed on Cliffjumper. We were waiting in traffic. A really long wait. Like an hour at least. I wonder why they call it rush hour when everything just stops.”

“I never really understood that myself.” Sam swung his legs back and forth in the air, head turned to get a better look at Jazz. “How is he?”

Blue tried to stay cheerful, but it was visibly a struggle. “Not any better. But that means he’s not any worse either. Jack says to give it some time, that they’ll come up with a solution. But I worry that they won’t. I don’t want him to stay like this. Jazz deserves better.”

“He does,” Sam acknowledged in a soft tone. “I didn’t really get a chance to know him before all this, but even I could tell that he’s a great bot.”

“The best.” Blue shifted on his seat. “Jazz was – is – always nice to me. He never gets mad because I talk all the time. Never tells me to shut up or go away or anything. He puts up with it. Not even my creators really did that. And it’s not like he could tell me to leave now anyway.” Bluestreak made a half-shrugging motion, causing the doors on his back to flutter like butterfly wings. “I thought that maybe he gets lonely here, all by himself with no one else around. So I figured that I could at least let him know I’m here. Talk to him. Which is about all I’m good for most days.”

The youngling cocked his head. “Do you think that he can hear us?”

“Sure,” Blue replied. “Why not? I mean, this isn’t exactly a typical situation, but there are stories, you know. About bots who’ve been like this and woken up. Of course, there are stories about how they don’t, too. How they just lay there for vorns and vorns. Just a shell that’s still living. You don’t… you don’t think… I mean, maybe. But I hope not… But still, I…”

Despite the ramble, Sam understood completely. “I don’t think that will happen to Jazz.”

“Really?” The mech’s optics were pleading. “Do you really--”

“I really believe that.” Sam very gently patted Jazz on the foot. “Ratchet’s on the case. He’s got the magic touch. Can fix just about everything. Look how many times he’s pieced Wheeljack back together just since they’ve been here.” He inclined his head. “Jazz might come back as a toaster oven or a radio, but he’ll be back. Undoubtedly.”

“Good. That’s good.” Blue’s doors fluttered again. “I’m glad. It makes me feel less stupid for hoping he’ll get better. Sometimes, I think that I’m the only one who hasn’t given up. Even--”

There was a sudden crash outside. Like the sound of a wrench impacting someone’s head. Or maybe just the wall if there was no convenient target around. Namely the twins, Jack, Hide, any of the Aerialbots, and just about everyone else. Expect perhaps Prowl; Ratchet rarely hit Prowl. Probably because he seldom had any real reason to do so.

“Ah, Ratchet. I almost forgot.” Sam slid down from his spot on the berth. “I’ll see you later, Blue. Take care of yourself.” He touched his friend on the leg as he walked by.

Bluestreak waved at him. “You, too, Sam. And don’t make Ratchet mad. He might throw things again. Not that he really throws things at you anyway. You’re so small; what would he do if he actually hit you? It might hurt you. Like really hurt you. Oh, you’re leaving now. Bye!”

Sam just shook his head.


	3. Shades of Light

Sam hated the taste of energon. Completely and absolutely. It tasted like sunshine, all heat and light and energy. Which sounded fine theoretically but was woefully inadequate in practice. Warmth and energy but no real flavor, none at all. Like putting hot water in his mouth, only not as pleasant. The others seemed to like it well enough, though Huffer did complain that the quality was nowhere near as good as on Cybertron, and they went on for hours with comparisons about the various fuels they either purchased or bartered from the government. Sam honestly couldn’t tell the difference.

Primus, what he wouldn’t give for some pizza. Or ice cream. His mom’s special pot roast, seasoned just the way he liked it. The burgers his dad had grilled during the summer and the cakes his grandma had made before her death. Milkshakes from his favorite diner. Chinese takeout. Mikaela’s brownies. And a part of him wondered if this was what a pregnant woman felt like. He’d have to ask Sarah Lennox; she’d definitely know with two kids and all.

“Is something wrong?” Bee’s voice suddenly interrupted his mental musings.

Sam came back to himself, only to realize that his cube of energon was paused halfway to his mouth. Judging by the way everyone else at the table watched him, he could tell that he’d been in this position for a while. He promptly set it back down and ignored the fact that his cube was still mostly full. Ratchet would get on to his case if he started skipping meals again, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“No.” The youngling shrugged, the metal of his shoulders protesting the movement. “Just thinking.” He received some strange looks in return. His comm. beeped in his head, but Sam just pretended it hadn’t.

Bee narrowed his optics but thankfully remained silent. Cliffjumper just wiped at some imaginary scuff on his burnt orange paint. Gears shook his head and drank his own energon, while Windcharger and Brawn exchanged a glance. Sam still couldn’t figure out why they were sitting here. Probably some misplaced sense of minibot solidarity. Or maybe because the twins were at the only other semi-empty table. Sunstreaker plus a minibot or two usually equaled some type of violence and no small amount of repairs.

Sideswipe noticed his attention from across the room and smirked. He nudged the unoccupied seat next to him in a blatant invitation. Sam actually considered for a moment, but if he left, Bee would undoubtedly follow. As usual. Besides, Tracks had just walked in and was making a beeline for Sunstreaker, and the minibot had no desire to hear the two of them wax on philosophically about car polish or who did the best detailing. Once was more than enough. Twice was enough to make him retreat to the medbay to save his sanity. He shuddered to think what a third time would do.

On the other hand, he might get to hear about their trip to Vegas instead. Or their run in with Barricade. Though the fact that they hadn’t managed to catch the ‘Con was obviously a sore point, and one Sam was smart enough not to bring up. He was better off asking Sideswipe or Prowl anyway.

Plunk!

Sam started at the unexpected thunk against his head and whirled to see Cliffjumper pulling back his fingers, which he had so recently flicked. The youngling rapidly shuttered his optics in an approximation of a blink.

“What was that for?” he asked with a hint of annoyance, belatedly having his comm. chime again. Sam continued to ignore it.

Cliffjumper made a snorting sound. “Just checking that you’re still here. Bee asked you a question.”

“Oh, sorry.” Sam faced his friend.

Bee studied him for a second. “ _You hide, hide, hide in your own little world._ ”

Despite the fact that it was a song and not Bee’s voice, Sam could still hear the accusation.

“Do not,” he insisted before the yellow minibot could go on. “Just thinking… about the new guys. What they’re like.” The youngling mentally patted himself for such a quick save.

“Mirage…” Cliffjumper let out a half-sparked huff of air. “He’s alright, I guess. For a rich bot. He lived in the towers. All ritzy and glammed up.”

Just alright? Coming from Cliffjumper that was a ringing endorsement. He might as well have said Mirage was his long lost brother.

Gears seemed to hold a similar opinion. “Alright? I thought you couldn’t stand him.”

The orange mech made a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, he’s alright. He saved my aft back in Praxus. And then again in Vos. Could’ve left me to die both times, but he didn’t. So he’s alright.” One hand curled into a fist underneath the table but uncurled just as swiftly.

“Ratchet seems to like him well enough,” Windcharger went on in a smug tone.

Sam sensed there was a story here. But he doubted that he’d ever get to hear it. Everybody felt the need to censure what exactly they told him. It was like being kicked out of the rated R movie, despite the fact that he was old enough. Half the time, he was surprised they even cursed in front of him. Though the fact that Ratchet was the worst offender probably had something to do with their lenience. No one dared challenge him. Especially not after he had welded Ironhide to the ceiling and left him there for over a week.

“Yeah,” Gears inserted. “Mirage was always hanging around the medbay at Praxus.” He was on the verge of adding to that, but a swift kick under the table silenced him. The Toyota glared at Brawn.

Sam was fast to head off an argument. “What about the other guy? Hound?” He hoped that he had gotten the name right.

“ _He’s such a fine man_.” Bee was quick to use his radio, but he verbally added, “I believe you’ll like him, Sam.”

“What’s he like?” Sam tilted his head. It was always interesting to meet new bots, though he couldn’t quite help the sliver of dread that spiked through his processor. This set had no idea that he’d once been human.

“ _A true friend. You’re here till the end._ ” Which was followed by, “ _No matter what I'm always right there behind you._ ” Bee gave a light electronic chirp, which Sam had always interpreted as pleased or happy.

“So he’s a good friend?” the youngling inferred out loud.

Brawn nodded from across the table. “He’s known Trailbreaker since they were sparklings. They joined our side together and everything.” He tapped one arm with his finger in a thoughtful gesture.

Bee continued, “He’s very pleasant and personable. A scout like me.” He briefly touched a hand to his chassis before setting it back on the table, just brushing Sam with his elbow.

Sam would’ve moved, but something occurred to him in that moment. “I take it you don’t know the last guy.” He briefly tried to remember if anyone else had really mentioned him.

The other minibots looked at each other and then at the youngling.

“I kinda recognize the name,” Windcharger admitted. “But I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”

“There were a lot of us runnin’ around back then,” Cliffjumper put in as he set his energon down. “Can’t expect us to know ‘em all.”

Whatever Sam would’ve responded with was cut off as Wheeljack entered the common room. The youngling had a sinking feeling that Ratchet had sent him, which only increased when he headed straight for their table. Sam had to fight the urge to fidget, but that sensation evaporated when he noticed that Jack’s headfins were flashing at an excited tempo. He briefly wondered if this meant Bluestreak and Hide were back with their guests in tow. As much as he wished he could’ve gone to meet them personally as he and Bee had done in the past, the minibot realized the wisdom of staying behind. Besides, Epps was now their go-to-guy for the standard “This is a human” introduction. Sam was the wrong species for that particular job.

Bumblebee shifted beside him, apparently thinking along similar lines. “I take it they’re here?” he questioned as Jack came up just behind Sam and gave around of greetings.

“I saw them as they came in, but Prowl’s debriefing them now.” Wheeljack swayed from one foot to the other with enthusiasm, like a kid whose Christmas had come early. “And the new bot…” He paused for effect but continued when they just looked at him. “He has symbiotes! Real symbiotes! Simply fascinating. I’ve never seen them up close before.”

As usual, Sam was left in the dark. “Uh… symbiotes?” He instantly regretted asking.

Jack launched into an explanation. But all Sam really caught was something about bonds and dependency. He was pretty certain that collective was mentioned at least once, but his ears – audios – were ringing too badly to tell. Not to mention that his mind had been reduced to mush. A glance at Bee revealed that he was in much the same state. But the others around the table were either shaking their heads or looking very pained.

“…and I believe he has six of them,” Wheeljack concluded. “Six! An astounding number, given how complicated the process.” His fins flashed again.

Sam was only glad that none of the humans on base had epilepsy, and he shifted in his seat, trying to piece his thoughts into something resembling coherency. It was a lost cause, however.

“Brain breaking…” He almost whimpered.

The much larger mech turned to him. “What was that?”

Sam left out a soft but pained sound. “Er… nothing.” He shifted again. “So what’s his name? The one with all the doohickeys?” the minibot inquired in an attempt to distract Jack.

That made the engineer pause. “Name?” He said the word like he’d never heard of such a thing.

“Name,” Sam agreed with a bemused air. “That thing we call other people by.” He could feel Bee stirring with faint laughter next to him. “You did talk to him, didn’t you?”

Gears scoffed at that. “Bet you were too excited by the bot’s little helpers to ask. D’you even know what he looks like?”

Wheeljack considered, one hand rubbing his chin. “Hmm… I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” He didn’t even sound sheepish, merely intrigued.

Sam had the sudden urge to roll his not-eyes or quite possibly bang his head on the table, but he somehow managed to fight it down. A gentle hand on his wrist caught his attention and held it then, Bee’s expression clearly conveying his amusement. The youngling’s insides warmed at that look, internal knots unraveling. He was on the verge of a grin, but a following chill swept through him just as quickly. Sam pulled away. He turned to the side, not seeing the flash of emotion cross Bee’s face.

No one around them seemed to notice though. No one at their table at least.

In the meantime, Jack just made a humming noise. One that Sam knew was really the thrum of his processor as he contemplated a problem or puzzle. The mech was seemingly oblivious as the bots around him exchanged a knowing glance. Sam liked Wheeljack. He really did, but sometimes, the scientist could be… well…

Jack finally shook himself from his reverie sometime later and after most everyone at the table had finished their energon. Sam’s merely sat in its container though and mocked him with its cheerful purplish glow.

Then, of course, reality came crashing back down.

“Oh, almost forgot,” Wheeljack inserted cheerfully. “Ratchet was looking for you.” He patted Sam on the shoulder. “You really should respond to your comm. all the time. Never know when it might be important.”

The youngling made a noncommittal noise; he was all prepared to hunker down in his chair. However, that kind hand was swift to pull Sam out of his seat in a way that told him Jack was onto his tricks. Or he had simply been around the twins for far too long.

“Why don’t I walk you there?” Jack added, though it was far more statement than question. “Oh, no need to get up Bumblebee. Sam and I will be fine on our own.” He made a shooing gesture at the youngling’s caretaker, who was poised to follow. “Don’t you have a shift in a few breems anyway? Or was that yesterday? Tomorrow? So confusing with the time difference on this planet. Such small intervals for everything. Eighty-three solar revolutions for just a vorn. Eighty-three! And most of creatures on this world don’t even live that long! Extraordinary.”

Through the entire monologue he was escorting Sam to the exit with a grip still firmly on his shoulder, the only part he could easily reach besides the minibot’s head. Sam didn’t even bother to struggle, in spite of the fact that he felt like a naughty child being hauled off to bed. And he saw Sideswipe smirk at him as he went by. Not to mention Tracks and Sunstreaker pausing in their conversation. Or the other minibots staring after him.

Gears, of course, snorted then. Cliffjumper propped his feet up in the now empty chair. Brawn murmured something that made Windcharger snicker. Bumblebee just stood there. Did nothing to neither help nor hinder. Merely watched.

And the yellow mech was the last thing he saw as he was pulled through the door.

\-----

Sam had never realized there were this many shades of blue. Not before he met the Autobots. The sky blue optics of First Aid and his brothers. The almost aqua blue-green of Bluestreak. The glacial color of the twins. The near indigo of Prowl, deep and gleaming. Or the all but grey of Wheeljack. And every shade in between.

But the thing that probably struck him the most about Mirage was not his aristocrat looks, sharp angles intermixed with gentle curves. Or his bearing, as dignified as Optimus or Prowl. Or even the unusual paint choice, a shimmering and ethereal sort of white and blue. Instead, it was his optics.

They were gold. Pure gold. Like the metal, only brighter.

Sam got the dichotomy. Red for Decepticons. Blue for Autobots. And apparently now, green for fre-- for undecided. Gold… gold was unexpected. Before this, he was the only one with anything different.

And naturally, this would happen when he was in the medbay. The bane of his existence. His mother was right; he should’ve been a lawyer. Not some cross between a nurse and an auto mechanic.

Sam was only supposed to be in here for yet another checkup. He hadn’t expected one of the new guys – Mirage, as he later learned – to come barging in like he owned the place. Well, that might be exaggerating a little. But he’d still hoped to meet the newbies under better circumstances. Not when he was face-down on a berth with his personal physician doing Primus only knew what to the servos in his back.

Of course, it didn’t help that Ratchet had been acting rather strangely for the past hour or so, ever since Sam had shown up. Jittery. Anxious almost. He had dropped – actually dropped! – his favorite wrench no less than three times. Something he rarely did even once and usually only when Sideswipe was involved. That wasn’t even counting the odd noises he’d made or the fact that the plates along his chest and arms had been twitching in a rhythmic fashion. Or the steady whine of his processor, which had grown continuously louder.

If Sam hadn’t known better, and he seriously doubted that he did, he’d say that Ratchet was nervous. Only the chief medic didn’t do nervous. Angry. Smug. Self-righteous. A grouchy sort of caring. Those were all Ratchet. Nervous didn’t fit anywhere in the equation.

And as if Primus himself were set against Sam, the minibot was proven wrong as soon as the door to the medbay opened. Ratchet glanced up, ready to verbally eviscerate whoever had dared enter his realm. But he faltered. Froze completely. Optics shifting to a shade of blue that would’ve put Sunstreaker to shame.

Sam, for his part, couldn’t see who had just entered. Much less why they would cause such a reaction. He shifted on the berth, and when the medic didn’t chastise him as usual, he rolled over and sat up. There was an unfamiliar mech by the door. Just standing there and looking at Ratchet in much the same way Ratchet was gazing at him.

“Mirage.”

The word was barely a whisper, but Sam heard it all the same. The youngling couldn’t help but think that the name suited him. Deceptively lithe but strong underneath. Bringing to mind shimmers and tricks of light, the way Mirage’s paint gleamed even in the shadow of the doorway.

“What’re you doing here?” Ratchet finally came back to himself, at least in part. “Shouldn’t you still be with Prowl and the others?” There was something to the way he looked then, shocked but infinitely pleased.

“It’s good to see you, too.” Mirage’s tone was smooth, cultured. The kind of voice that could carry across the room or command whole armies without rising a single decibel. “I snuck out early. I wanted to surprise you, but I can come back later if you want.” His words were filled with hidden amusement, as though falling into a familiar pattern.

Ratchet instantly bristled. “Come back later? I haven’t seen you for vorns. And the first thing you say is that you’ll come back later!” Sam could see the bot’s fingers quiver. Like he longed to throw something.

Mirage took a step forward. “Temper, temper. I dare say you act as though you missed me.”

“Missed you like I miss rust-rot,” the medic retorted. There was no heat to it, however.

Sam couldn’t help himself. He snickered. And damn their mechanically advanced senses, but the two obviously heard him. Up to this point, he had seemingly been forgotten. But in that instant, both turned to him.

“Ratchet, who is--” Mirage began, but he faltered when he studied the minibot more closely. “Is that… a youngling?” All trace of teasing was gone from his voice.

The medic hesitated for a fraction of a second and gestured for Sam to slide from the berth to the floor. When the youngling didn’t move, Ratchet pulled him there himself.

“Mirage,” he said and nudged his charge forward. “This is Sam.”

The minibot couldn’t help but notice that Ratchet introduced him in English. Of course, a larger part of him was digging in his heels, trying not to be moved. Especially with the way Mirage was gazing at him. Like he’d seen a ghost. A figment of his imagination. It should be difficult to downright impossible for a bot to gape, to have their optics almost bug out, but Mirage somehow managed it in that moment.

“Sam… I… Hello?” The words were soft, nearly awestruck as Mirage moved forward in an odd shuffle-step.

Were the situation not so serious, it would’ve been funny. But the youngling wasn’t the least bit amused. Nervous fit his mood a bit better. Twitching… that one, too. Particularly when Ratchet bumped him forward again. It was all Sam could do not to go. Mirage didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he very slowly bent down on one knee to get a better look. Sam tried to backpedal, but the medic’s hand on his shoulder kept him steady.

“None of that now.” Ratchet nudged him once more. “Go on. He won’t bite. At least, he won’t bite you.” The latter part was said with more than a hint of smug satisfaction.

Sam let loose a sound from the back of his not-throat. “Er… hi.” He followed that up with an uneasy wave, but it honestly wasn’t his fault. Such scrutiny was unnerving. _Very unnerving._

Thankfully, Mirage seemed to pick up on this, and he shook his stupor away like a dog would water. “Forgive me. It has just been some time since I’ve seen one of us so young.” But even as he said it, there was still a lilt of wonder to his voice. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Sam.” He reached forward with one hand and brushed it over Sam’s arm.

He stiffened. “Uh… likewise.”

It was all the minibot could do not to jump back, but he relaxed when Mirage pulled his hand away. The older mech studied him in turn, acting like Sam was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“I just…” Mirage’s attention flickered to Ratchet then. “I was under the impression that the Allspark was destroyed shortly after Prime’s arrival and that this event was just a few stellar cycles ago. When was there time to create a youngling? Much less one this old?”

The medic had a pained look on his faceplates. “There wasn’t time.”

“Oh.” Mirage went back to Sam with clear confusion. “Are you femme-sparked then?” He hesitated as something occurred to him. “Where are your creators? I didn’t think any femmes were here.”

Sam fidgeted. “Yeah… about that…” He stuttered to a stop and helplessly looked up at Ratchet.

Mirage followed his gaze to the medic. “Is he… is he yours?” he asked in a voice that said everything but nothing. He looked to Sam next. “Are you Ratchet’s sparkling?” His golden optics gleamed with something a lot like longing.

Ratchet faltered. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he responded after a minute. “I… He… It’s complicated. As much as I’d like to claim him--” The medic made a strangled noise. “If anything, he’s a creation of the whole base,” he corrected.

That made Sam start. He was preparing to demand what exactly Ratchet meant when the blue and white mech abruptly left out a huff of air.

“I don’t understand.” Sam could practically see the gears turning in Mirage’s head as he tried to figure this all out. “How could you possibly be the creation of everyone? Were you adopted then? Are you… Are you an orphan?”

“Technically yes,” Ratchet replied in the youngling’s place. “But that’s neither here nor there.” His pump thrummed loudly in his chassis, a sure sign that he was uneasy. “Sam is rather unique. He isn’t femme-born. But no one created him through the Allspark either.”

“What?” Mirage had expression of someone who’d just learned that babies really did come from the cabbage patch.

“Fraggit all. I was hoping Prowl would explain this,” the medic muttered as he put a hand to increasingly his aching head. Nevertheless, he had the feeling that Mirage had simply missed that part.

A very long and tense moment went by with them stuck in a strange sort of tableau. Mirage staring in complete confusion. Ratchet trying to ease the pain in his processor. Sam wishing his was anywhere but there.

Finally, the medic just surrendered to the inevitable. “Mirage… I’m not really sure how to explain this. Or even where to start. Let’s just go into my office for a while. See if I can make this make sense.” He gestured the door on the back wall.

Mirage considered for a few seconds. “I… yes. Of course.” He studied Sam for a minute more and slowly started to move away but not before he added, “It was good to meet you.”

Sam said nothing.

After he was gone, Ratchet glanced back at his patient. “I don’t think you really want to be here for this,” he commented in an aside.

The youngling shook his head. “It’s probably better if I’m not. We’ve confused him enough.”

Despite his anxiety, he couldn’t help but feel bad for Mirage. He’d only been on Earth for a few hours and had this thrown at him. Everyone else had had a lot longer to get used to the idea, but even they were still confounded by it all. Some more than others.

“I’m sorry about this.” Ratchet sounded genuinely contrite. “This isn’t the way I wanted you to meet him. Meet any of them.”

The minibot managed a smile. “Not your fault. Or his really. And I should probably get used to it. Bound to happen more in the future.” He shrugged carelessly. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad of a first impression. At least, he didn’t try to get me to take off all my clothes.”

Ratchet eased at his flippant tone. “Yes, well. Perceptor certainly got an audio full about that one.”

Sam shrugged again. “He deserved it.” He turned to leave. “I’ll see you later. I think I’ll go hide in my room until this blows over.”

“Sam…” his companion began.

The youngling waved him off. “Don’t worry about it, Ratchet.” He waffled on adding, “I’m fine.” But he knew that was a lie.

“Just don’t worry,” Sam said instead.

He walked away then, not trusting himself to say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from: _Your Own Little World_ by Forgotten Rebels, _Such a Fine Man_ by Debbie Davies, _True Friend_ by Miley Cyrus, and _Right Behind You_ by Our Lady Peace.


	4. Color Scheme

Blaster. Sam supposed that as far as their names went that one was among the most unusual. He sounded more like a ray gun than a giant robot. The mech was the comm. guy, like a big radio on legs according to Sideswipe. Shouldn’t he be named something like Soundbite or Radiowave?

But Blaster?

Sam was still trying to figure out that one as he watched the red and yellow mech from the doorway of the common room. The youngling couldn’t help but feel bad for him, sitting there with only his symbiotes and cube of energon. None of the other bots had approached him yet. Maybe because of his hangers-on. Perhaps because he had never met any of the others before. It was hard being the odd mech out, surrounded by bots that had undoubtedly known each other for centuries or longer.

Sam could empathize. He often felt left out, too. Like when they talked about Cybertron. Cities like Vos or Iacon or Praxus, places Sam would never see. Or bots long dead. Comrades. Friends. Brothers. Events that had happened before humans even existed. The Golden Age. The Ascension of Sentinel Prime.

And the worst part, the worst part was that they didn’t realize. The twins, Bluestreak, Ratchet and First Aid, Wheeljack, Bee… all of them did it. And didn’t even know. Better yet, they rarely did it to Epps or Lennox. To the humans. Only to Sam. Like he was supposed to know all of this automatically. As though his new form had come with some magical guide to Cybertronian history downloaded into his processor. And when he inevitably did or said something that was strange to them, they’d look at him like he grown another head. Like he was an idiot.

Still, he supposed that it could be worse. They could’ve freaked out when he transformed. Well, more so than they actually did. Could’ve thrown him out. Refused to have anything to do with him. Instead, they practically smothered him. With kindness. With attention. He could hardly go anywhere without one of them tagging along. Outside the base. The medbay. His own room. The wash racks.

And what a fun experience that had been! Bee and Aid were one thing; Sam couldn’t exactly fault them for wanting to make certain he knew how to care for his new form. Red Alert was drawing the line. Ditto Prowl, Skyfire, Optimus, and Percy. Or on one shudder-worthy occasion, Sunstreaker and Tracks. He wasn’t a toddler, a sparkling; he could do it himself. The minibot didn’t give flying glitch if it was a cultural tradition either or if “he was limiting himself to human norms.” Bath time was Sam-only time from now on.

But back to Blaster.

The mech just looked so… sad. No, not sad. Lost more like. As though he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. It probably didn’t help that the room was occupied by the less than friendly sort at this time of day. Bots like Huffer and Cliffjumper. Slingshot. Slag, Sludge, and Snarl. The kind of mechs who were grumpy and contrary at best. At worst… Sam didn’t even want to think about what they’d do then.

He just looked so lost. So alone. Even as he and his symbiotes idly bopped along to whatever music they were listening to on their internal radios. It had been days since their arrival, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder how many people on the base had actually talked to them. Made them feel welcome. Like they had Sam himself.

Blaster, however, at least had one thing in his favor so far. He was the only one of the new guys not to stare. Sam thought it was perhaps time to return the favor.

The symbiotes all looked up at his arrival, but Sam just nodded at them politely. Blaster studied him for a moment, optics unreadable in the dim light. The youngling gazed back evenly.

“Hi,” he said with a shy smile and a little wave. “I’m Sam.”

\-----

His typical day as a giant alien robot was nowhere near as exciting as it sounded. To be perfectly honest, life with the Autobots was mostly routine and even downright boring at times. One would think that giant alien robots were always interesting and exciting, but after being around them for over three years, the appeal was somewhat lacking at times. Yeah, they were cool and pretty badass. But they were also far too human-like with their petty arguments and annoying habits. If it wasn’t Sunstreaker versus most of the minibots, it was Ratchet yelling at his patients. Or Perceptor trying and failing to punt Wheeljack out of his lab. Or Prowl and Red Alert chasing Sideswipe after another prank.

And about a thousand other things. Like the fact that Slingshot and Blades couldn’t be in the same room, much less share a patrol. And that Beachcomber had no sense of direction. That Hound had the tendency to track mud all through the base. That Warpath couldn’t spell his way out of a paper bag. Or that Bluestreak knew every word in the English dictionary – not to mention a few other languages – and was always eager to show their proper usage. That Mirage was the world’s worst tripping hazard and liked to walk around invisible for no apparent reason. Or that Swoop and the Aerialbots often flew suspiciously low through the corridors, and even Sam had been forced to duck a few times.

Brig time and punishment detail were the norm rather than the exception. A day didn’t go by without someone being painted a different color, someone else being pinged in the head by a wrench, and at least one fight – two if the minibots were being especially mouthy. Sam just wondered how they’d managed to last this long against the Decepticons. Honestly, it was like a live-viewing of a very bad soap opera. One with random explosions and transforming robots. A sci-fi drama then.

And Sam was stuck right in the middle of it. At ground zero. Often bored out of his poor mind. Particularly when he had absolutely nothing to do. Considered either too delicate – Ratchet’s words. Or young – Optimus, Bee, and just about everyone else. Though they did give him tasks to complete, the youngling wasn’t on the duty roster per se. Ratchet or sometimes Prowl would comm. in instructions for the day, which normally revolved around him learning some random task or thing. But for the most part, he was left to his own devices. Or would be without his constant hangers-on.

His current companion was Blaster. Not necessarily a bad thing as he waited for Bee to get back from patrol with Streetwise. The yellow minibot always insisted on checking on Sam whenever he returned; it was just easier to meet him halfway. Still, Blaster was rather good company at the moment as they toured around the base. He vaguely reminded Sam of Jazz – well, what Sam could remember of his first and only meeting with Jazz and what the others had told him. The red and yellow mech was fairly light-sparked once he started talking. Rather easygoing and bursting with unanswered questions about Earth and its inhabitants. Everything from rap to Middle Eastern culture to inquiries about the latest scientific discoveries. And he was so slagging understanding when the youngling didn’t immediately know the answer; Blaster didn’t even use the kicked puppy look that Jack and Blue seemed to have perfected.

All and all, relaxing and pretty enjoyable. Which of course meant it was all doomed to the pit sometime in the near future.

“So, Sam…” Blaster began as they passed an intersection and turned left. “Sam… That’s a very interesting name.”

And there it was.

The minibot hesitated for a second but kept walking. It didn’t take Percy to see where this was going, and a part of him again wondered what exactly the newbies had been told about him. Regardless of that, Sam decided to head this one off at the pass. So much better that way.

“My parents seemed to think so.” But at Blaster’s confused expression, Sam decided to have mercy. “I don’t have a Cybertronian designation.”

The older bot considered this for a long moment. “Why not?”

“Well, as Ratchet explained it, creators normally pick that.” He hinged on adding to that but finally resigned himself to it. “And mine… mine aren’t really able to do much of anything at the moment.”

That statement definitely got a reaction. But not quite the one Sam had been expecting.

“They’re deactivated? Dead?” Blaster corrected softly. His optics were bright, but there was no pitying cast to them. Only a quiet sort of comprehension.

The youngling let out a gust of air and glanced away. “One is. And the other might as well be.”

They lapsed into silence. The conversation had become a proverbial minefield, and they were still too new to each other to know what topics to avoid. Sam felt his unease spike as the quiet lingered, wondering if he’d managed to offend his new friend. Already, Blaster’s symbiotes had scattered to the four winds, though Sam honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had seen them. Sometime between the rec room and stopping to watch some of the older bots spar. Seeing Powerglide have his aft handed to him by Hot Spot had been very entertaining, not to mention distracting.

Just then, Blaster came to a grinding halt. He flickered his optics several times in the approximation of a blink and tilted his head to the side. The youngling, in turn, only stopped because his companion did, too used to this particular happening.

And the sight that had caused all of this? Will and Epps. Well, not so much them as what they were doing. Climbing their way up some strategically placed crates outside of Jack’s lab and shooting troubled looks towards the far hallway the entire time. Blaster just watched in bewildered fascination as the two managed to make it to the top in record time and then proceeded to loosen the grate above their heads. The youngling couldn’t help but give an almost-sigh as they disappeared into the ventilation system, reconnecting the grate behind him.

And Blaster was on the verge of speaking, only be interrupted as Ironhide came around the corner seconds afterward, optics scanning. His gaze briefly flickered over them, and Hide gave a nod in greeting before he went on his way.

“War games,” Sam replied before Blaster could even ask. “Do it all the time.” He shook his head. “And I mean, _all the time_.” He just wondered where the rest of Lennox’s team was.

Apparently playing Halo, the minibot discovered a few minutes later. Or something resembling it at any rate. The twins were with them and losing by the sounds of it. Sides had a very firm frown fixed on his normally pleasant face, and Sunny was cursing in Cybertronian. Fig and his buddies just laughed.

Red Alert and Simmons were surprisingly enough in the same room as the gamer tournament, though they obviously weren’t participating. The two were towards the back and at a table with some Cybertronian-sized diagrams. Undoubtedly some form of schematics. Simmons was on the tabletop, pointing out things as the Security Director nodded and added his own comments. They seemed lost in their own world, not even noticing the increasingly loud shouts and catcalls going on behind them.

Sam kept walking. He headed further into the human-friendly – or friendlier, rather – parts of the base. Blaster was quiet behind him. Apparently trying to comprehend what he had just seen.

“Is that--” he began but was abruptly cut off as a tremor went through the hallway.

It rattled through both of them but did little more than that. Sam would have thought it an earthquake – they were fairly close to California – if it weren’t for a second coming in quick succession. Then, they heard “Not a pony!” followed by the sound of childish laughter. Sam couldn’t resist peeking his head in through the nearest doorway.

Inside, there was a monster. He – if indeed it was a he – was enormous. Every inch of Optimus Prime’s height. Perhaps even taller with sharp teeth and claws. His silvery body gleamed dangerously in the bright light, hints of poisonous yellow at various spots. A ferocious beast. And by his gigantic foot was a three-foot tall person in pink with her blonde hair pulled back into pigtails. She smiled in a way that would be charming if not for the fact that the Dinobot seemed terrified.

“Grimmie’s funny,” the girl announced with another giggle. She held out what appeared to be a miniature horse bridle, only it was purple. A very light, very girly purple. “Puhleasssssse! Pretty puhlease. With sugar on top. And sprinkles.” Her eyes were impossibly shiny and big.

“Now, sweetheart,” Sarah Lennox interrupted before the situation could degenerate any further. She was sitting on a human-sized couch, attention divided between her daughter and the cooking show on the television in front of her. “That’s obviously too small for Grimlock. It simply won’t fit.”

Annabelle paused to consider this fact. She glanced at the plastic bridle and then at Grimlock. The minibot could practically see the cogs turning in her head before she unexpectedly brightened.

Her smile was quick to return, blossoming across the entire lower half of her face. “Jacky’ll have tah make a big one!”

Sam wondered if mechs could have aneurisms. Grimlock was close to it with the look of abject horror frozen on his face. His tail thumped in a clearly agitated manner behind him, very nearly missing the fridge and stove that were along one wall. The dishes rattled ominously in the cabinets, and the minibot stumbled from the vibration travelling through the floor. Annabelle didn’t even seem to notice it.

Her mother, however, did. Sarah looked to the side then. But seeing the bots in the doorway, her reprimand fell away.

“Oh! Hi, Sam.” She waved cheerfully. “Have you seen my husband?” Her hand fell back to rest on her belly, while the other stroked through the hair of the sleeping toddler beside her. “It’s almost time for us to go home.”

“He was with Epps the last I saw,” Sam responded after a second’s hesitation. “Maybe you should ask Ironhide.”

Sarah lifted an eyebrow. “They’re at it again, are they?” She rolled her eyes. “Every time we’re here. Every time.” She shook her head. “ _Boys._ ”

Annabelle chose that moment to let out another giggle, and it occurred to Sam then that he might just be able to fit into the bridle. Which meant that he needed to leave before the pink princess realized that fact.

Sam wisely backed for the door. “I’ll see you later, Sarah.” He then beat a hasty retreat.

Blaster was smart enough to follow. “Weird,” he said in an undertone. “Man, that was very, very weird.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Sam replied distractedly, but he then smiled in remembrance. “Just wait until she has another tea party.”

\-----

“I can’t believe you stepped on him!”

From his place in the middle of the medbay, Sam could very hear Ratchet’s irate voice. And judging from First Aid’s expression so could he. The two of them exchanged a glance, wincing at the distinctive sound of a wrench hitting metal echoed to them from the hall. Aid gave an almost-sigh at the following silence and encouraged the youngling to lean all the way back. Sam just shook his head and did as he was told.

“ _Stepped on him!_ He’s pure black. Not exactly easy to miss!”

The minibot squirmed as Aid worked on his unfortunate leg. The part of him most damaged at the moment.

There was another distinct sound, this one more of an enraged growl, before Ratchet stomped into the room. “That Prowl...” he mumbled rather audibly. “Primus, I expected better of the glitch. The twins or one of the other fraggers, sure. But the high and mighty lieutenant?” He strode over to Sam’s berth, still seething as he all but shoved First Aid out of the way.

The younger mech prudently kept his silence as he sidestepped.

Sam, however, opted for a different approach. “Hey, Ratchet…” His words tapered off as he got a better look at the senior medic. “What did you do to your paint?”

The now white and red Ratchet paused. His faceplates twisted into a faint smile. But the ones lining the edge shifted in a peculiar manner as he did so. A very rhythmic sort of shifting but not agitated. And his optics were a strange shade of blue, not to mention impossibly round. Odd. Very odd. Almost like--

Understanding hit the minibot like a ton of bricks. Had he been human, Sam realized, Ratchet would have been blushing.

The youngling gaped, and beside him, Aid made an airy sound. The equivalent of a human clearing their throat. He very gently moved Sam’s arm back to the table; the minibot hadn’t even realized he’d lifted it to point.

“I… It looks good,” Sam finally said after several long minutes. “It suits you.”

Ratchet gave him a disbelieving look as he reached for his tools. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” He selected something that resembled a cross between a pair of scissors and a soda can.

“I mean it,” the youngling insisted. “Scout’s honor.” At Ratchet’s incredulous hum, he added, “Hey, I really was a cub scout.” He conveniently left out the part where his mom had made him quit after a week when she found out that they had to go camping outdoors.

First Aid grinned from the side, undoubtedly realizing that there was more to the story. But he kept it to himself as his mentor grumbled a few more times, several curses working their way in for good measure. The senior medic tinkered for a moment, adjusting and straightening and occasionally banging. Sam just watched with interest as his leg went from a pancake-esque impersonation to something near to its former glory. Ratchet really was a miracle working. Even if he did curse like a drunken sailor at the best of times. And Sam was pretty certain that the threats involving Prowl, reformatting, and a waffle iron were all talk.

“In his defense,” the youngling spoke up as Ratchet’s angered mumbles increased, “Prowl was distracted at the time.”

The older mech lifted a non-existent eyebrow, quite a feat with his metal face. “Oh?”

Aid had to stifle a snicker at his tone. His face transformed to a neutral expression when a pair of blue optics drifted his way. But that immediately fell away when Ratchet returned his attention to Sam.

The minibot fidgeted under that scorching gaze. “Alright,” he admitted, “Sunstreaker was molesting him in the hallway.”

The medic threw his tool at the floor. “Again? At least it wasn’t both twins this time.” He grumped further, “Slaggers need to… what’s the phrase? Get a room. Save the lot of us a bunch of trouble.” He grabbed a different instrument, this one the mutant child of a corkscrew and a penlight.

First Aid’s battle mask slid into place. A sure sign he was trying and failing to hide his laughter, especially with the way his shoulders were shaking. Sam made a noncommittal noise and tried to stop the barrage of images that just appeared in his head. He shuddered at the thought of just what they would do in said room and promptly felt his processor start to overheat as he scoured that away.

This, of course, only served to make Ratchet glance up at his face with an aggravated sort of concern. He went back to his work after Sam forced himself to still, grumbling to himself about fraggers and slaggers and sorts of other uncomplimentary terms; pit-spawned Praxus reject may have worked its way in there, along with a few derogatory comments about socially retarded glitches. Sam couldn’t be certain, too busy trying not to think.

Ratchet tinkered for a while longer, Sam’s leg completely returning to its usual state. Though it was now covered in faint scratches that Ratchet absentmindedly buffed out. When he was done, the youngling couldn’t even tell his leg had been damaged at all. Quite a feat considering its earlier flattened condition. Ratchet had really outdone himself.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was probably closer to ten minutes, the chief medic straightened. “There. All better,” he commented in a vaguely sarcastic voice.

Sam leaned up and was making to leave the table. But Ratchet’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Not so fast.” There was something to his expression. Something nameless and slightly frightening.

The youngling moved to get a better look. “I thought you said you were done.”

“Not quite. Your leg is fine, but there’s something else we need to address.” He nudged his student with his elbow. “Go on.”

First Aid seemed distinctly unhappy. “Well, Sam, you see…” He shifted in an uncomfortable fashion. “You see…” His optics darted from Sam to his boss and back. “You see…” Then, he blurted out, “Ratchet has something to tell you.”

The older mech jumped as though struck; he turned to his apprentice with one optic twitching. “Me? I thought we agreed that you would break the news.” He made a snorting sound. “And they say _I_ have a bad berth-side manner.”

“Bedside,” Sam corrected automatically before freezing. “Wait… news?”

Neither seemed to have heard. Too busy glaring at each other. Though in First Aid’s case, it was more of a serious – albeit soft – stare. His face simply couldn’t do annoyance or anger as well as Ratchet. Not many could.

“News?” the minibot asked louder.

When they still didn’t look at him, Sam reached forward and grabbed Aid’s side, the only part of him that the youngling could currently reach. The mech turned to him then, face unreadable.

“What’s going on?” Sam half-demanded. He felt the plates on his chest and back start to crawl with foreboding.

The two medics exchanged a glance, and the minibot could just tell that they were sharing a silent conversation over the comm. lines. Dread flickered inside of him; his insides tried to curl around into a knot. There was something they obviously weren’t telling him, and judging by their reluctance, it had to be bad.

Sam came to the only logical conclusion. “Is there something wrong with me? Something you can’t fix?” A world full of horrible possibilities smacked him in the face, and he grasped onto the closest in reach. “Am I sick? Do I have some kind of horrible transformer-only disease?”

He suddenly recalled all the check-ups Ratchet had forced on him. Before, he had thought it because of his transformation, because of what had happened. Now…

“Am I dying?” the minibot questioned in an impossibly breathless tone; he felt his spark sputter in his chest. “Is that what you have to tell me?” He glanced between them. “You can tell me. I can take it like mech.”

“See,” Aid put in. “That’s the thing.” His tapped his fingers together in front of him.

Sam looked at him and then Ratchet, face imploring. “Please… I--”

“You’re not dying,” Ratchet cut in. “Thank Primus. But there is a slight problem. Nothing to be upset about. You’re as high-stung as Red Alert,” he muttered with the Cybertronian equivalent of an eye roll. And from that indefinable fifth dimension all the bots seemed to carry around like a pocket, he pulled out a datapad and handed it to the youngling.

Sam took the pad with confusion. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked at the strange symbols and not-quite-letters visible.

“It’s a recording of your spark energy,” the oldest mech explained. “We keep records of all the bots to see if there are any sudden changes.” Ratchet traded a brief look with his apprentice before leaning down to point. “This lower range is for mechs, and the higher is for femmes. They always run higher; that’s why they have enough energy to support other sparks.” He hesitated then, waiting for his patient to draw his own conclusions.

Sam studied the datapad, a chill creeping through him. He couldn’t help but notice that his reading was outside both ranges. Way outside both ranges. Too high. Far too high.

His head instantly jerked up to stare at them, green optics impossibly wide. First Aid was forced to look away; Ratchet just shook his head.

“Congratulations,” the senior medic continued in an odd tone, “you’re not a femme. But bad news, you’re not a mech either.”


	5. Technicolor

_Congratulations, you’re not a femme. But bad news, you’re not a mech either.”_

Sam gaped. Had he been able, his mouth would’ve undoubtedly been somewhere near the floor. One hand opened and closed, as though it couldn’t decide if it truly wanted to ball up into a fist or not. And his spark – his apparently freakish spark – trembled inside him.

“Not a femme or mech… I’m a hermaphrodite?” Sam whispered in a dazed voice and belatedly wondered when his life had become so strange that this almost sounded normal. Then, his optics narrowed as something occurred to him. “Wait a minute. You thought I was a girl!”

“Femme,” First aid corrected automatically but quick snapped his mouthparts shut.

“Femme. Girl. Whatever! You thought I was one,” the youngling accused with a finger pointing at them. “And you didn’t even tell me.”

Ratchet shifted. “I wanted to be certain first. Besides, you’re not a femme, so it hardly matters.” He wore a distinct frown.

The minibot couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “So you thought I was a girl and didn’t tell me. But I’m not, so it’s okay?”

Ratchet’s silence was answer enough.

“Fine. Moving on.” Sam rubbed a shaking hand over his face. “Not a mech or femme. So what am I then?”

The two medics glanced at each other. Then at him.

“We’re not entirely sure,” Ratchet allowed after a minute. “Well, that’s not completely true.” He let out a rush of air, processor thrumming as it kicked into overdrive.

“And?” Sam made a rolling motion.

Aid answered instead, “We don’t have a word for what you are, Sam. Not even in Cybertronian. It’s not exactly a common thing.”

“But there have been others, right?” the minibot asked with dread.

The gears in Ratchet’s arms whined as he crossed them over his chest. “Yes. A set of brothers. But they were the only ones, and there hasn’t been any since. This was something thought unique to them.”

“Until me that is,” Sam added. He felt a sudden pain at his temples, almost like the beginnings of a migraine.

“Yes,” Aid responded. “Until you.

“Well… tell me about the others you mentioned,” the youngling all but pleaded.

Ratchet flickered his optics down as he thought. “They were just brothers, Sam. And they were long deactivated before I was created. Long before the Golden Age or the war. The only one who might know more of them would be Alpha Trion, but I don’t even know if he is still functioning.”

“Just brothers,” Sam repeated with the distinct feeling that they were leaving out something important. “Nothing unique or weird about them at all.”

The younger mech hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Just brothers.”

And there was something in his tone, something in the way he said that. Sam instantly knew First Aid was lying. Lying big time, too. A part of the youngling ached at that. At the fact that his friend wouldn’t tell him the truth. Though Sam supposed that was rather hypocritical of him. As such, the minibot just let the matter drop.

“So is this because of how I was made? Because I was human first or what?” he questioned instead.

“Perhaps,” the senior medic answered. “You’re the first human to become one of us. But more than that, you are Allspark made.” Ratchet held up his hand to keep Sam from interrupting. “What I mean by that is the Allspark created your body, which normally doesn’t happen. Creators usually present a pre-made body to the Allspark and then receive a spark for it. Your situation is a bit backwards. Though it could have inherently altered your soul – as the humans call it – to a better format. Or maybe added something to it since you already had a spark-equivalent. We’ll probably never know.”

Sam was stumped. “But how am I any different from all those things that Sector 7 made? Or when I dropped the cube and made that stuff come to life?”

“Those were only drones, Sam.” Aid inserted with a gentle hand on the minibot’s shoulder. “Like partial-sparks. No real intelligence or even the capacity for it.” He shook his head. “They weren’t even proper drones; they only lasted for a few orns before deactivating.”

“And the Allspark didn’t create any bodies for them. Only for you.” Ratchet rubbed his chin in a pensive gesture. “It wasn’t even channeling energy properly when the humans were fiddling around. They had no idea what they were doing.” He seemed rather displeased at the reminder.

“Okay. I see what you mean,” Sam agreed halfheartedly. “So I’m different than those things, but how am I different from you guys? I mean, a spark’s a spark. Right?”

First Aid moved his fingers in a so-so motion. “Well, yes and no. It’s all about the energy involved, and yours happens to have a lot of energy.”

“I’m not following,” the youngling admitted. “What does that actually mean? In practical terms?”

Ratchet took a step forward. “Here.” He reached for Sam’s chassis, and when the minibot scooted back, he added, “I’m just going to show you what your spark looks like. It occurs to me that you’ve never seen it properly.”

“Er… not to be critical or anything,” Sam put in with confusion. “But it’s supposed to be pretty far back in my chest, and I just don’t bend that way.”

Ratchet looked straight up, the closest he could get to an eye roll. “It’s called a mirror, Sam.” He pulled a small but reflective piece of not-quite-glass from that weird dimensional pocket of his and hit the sequence to open Sam’s chestplate. “Take a look.”

The youngling gazed at him for a very long minute. But at Aid’s encouraging nod, he finally did as he was told.

Bright. There was simply no other word for it. His spark really was like a mini sun. White with vague streaks of gold and several small thread-like offshoots reaching out, though one was noticeably larger than the others. But bright. Brilliant. Practically dazzling. And Sam was certain that if he were still human, he would be on the verge of burning out his retinas. As things were, he still had to blink away little spots from his optics.

“Wow! That’s… that’s really bright.” His awe was clear in his voice. Sam would have never thought something so amazing was hidden inside of him. That it could even belong to him.

“Which is why we first thought you were a femme,” First Aid replied with a smile, infinitely amused. “They have brilliant sparks, too. But yours kept getting brighter. Too bright to be a femme’s.”

“You see,” Ratchet explained, “all sparks start dark when they’re first put in a body. They quickly grow lighter over the next few orns and until they reach their final color. Yours went into the femme range but then kept going.”

The minibot tilted his head to the side. “Okay. I can go with that. But is mine really that much brighter than normal?”

It was a legitimate question. It wasn’t like he went around asking people if he could see their _souls_. The only other real comparison he had was when he’d glimpsed the sparks of Optimus and then Megatron. And that had been three years ago, under duress, and right after he’d been thrown off a building. Besides, he’d had other things on his mind at the time. Like not dying.

Aid paused for a moment, fingering his chassis. “Well, we don’t exactly have any femmes handy…” he trailed off, and judging by the hum of his processor, he was thinking very hard.

Ratchet let out an enormous gust of air. “Normally, your creators would do this, but…” He gave an almost-shrug. “But that’s no excuse to let you be ignorant of things.” He reached for a locking mechanism on the edge of his chestplate. “And don’t take this the wrong way or anything.” He nudged his student with his elbow and received a nod in response.

Sam had apparently missed something in the translation, however. “What’re you… Oh.”

A part of the youngling was glad that no one decided to walk into the medbay at that moment since they would’ve been treated to a rather unusual sight. Ratchet and Aid exposing their sparks for everyone and their brother to see. With Sam staring at them like they’d grown another head, though that did little to diminish his curiosity. He couldn’t help but look, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Ratchet’s spark was a very soft green, the color of new leaves. First Aid’s though was very obviously different. More of a bluish purple color that was comparable to the sky around twilight. And neither was as bright as his. Like a comparison to the sun versus the moon when it was half-hidden by clouds.

Sam glanced back at the mirror that Ratchet was still holding up, and the only thing he could think to say was, “Is mine supposed to be white like that?”

First Aid laughed. “Yes, Sam. Nothing to be worried about; white just happens to be your color.”

“Oh,” the minibot replied as he snuck another peek. “Do the colors mean anything?”

“They say that you can determine someone’s personality and innate character based on their spark color, and a lot of bots put stock into that.” From Aid’s tone of voice, it was clear that he was included in their ranks.

“Cool. Like an aura or whatever. What about the threads coming off of them?” Sam asked eagerly.

The two medics froze.

“Threads?” Ratchet inquired in an astonished voice.

Sam only vaguely registered that. “Yeah. Threads. Ribbons, maybe. They’re like… I don’t know. Tethers.” He didn’t notice the very surprised look they traded over his head. “Aid has four really big, bright ones. And then a couple much smaller.” His attention flicked to the older mech. “And you have two that are obvious with some littler ones. But the big two are different from Aid’s and from each other.” He shrugged. “I can’t really explain how. I can just tell.” The youngling glanced up to see them gaping at him. “What?”

“You… you can see threads?” First Aid seemed to be stuck on that idea. “Actually see them?”

“Yes,” Sam said very slowly, and his mind pinged with realization as he studied their expressions. “I’m not supposed to be able to see that, am I?”

“No,” Ratchet inserted with a solemn shake of his head, optics rather wide. “No, you’re not. That… I think that you’re seeing our bonds. Ones with other bots.”

It took him a few seconds to process that statement until...

“ _What?_ ” Sam nearly screeched.

“Those ‘threads’ – as you call them – are our connections to others. The bonds we have active.” Ratchet was gazing at him with a nearly frightening intensity. “And no, neither of us can see that.” He shifted then, and Sam could see that the medic was practically vibrating with energy. And hopefully not of the angry kind.

“Do you have any idea what this means, Sam?” Aid asked breathlessly, quite a feat for someone who didn’t actually breathe.

“ _No_ ,” Sam shot back on a high-pitched note.

Aid didn’t seem to have heard him. “This is incredible! Amazing!” The younger medic put both of his hands on Sam’s shoulders and pulled in very close. “It’s wonderful.”

“It is?” the youngling squeaked. “How is it wonderful?”

First Aid still wasn’t listening. “We should call Bee down here and see if Sam can read his spark.”

Sam started. “Now, wait a minute--”

“Yes. Get Bumblebee here,” Ratchet was all too quick to agree, and the sparkle to his optics and pleased grin proved that he was also swept up in the excitement.

Instantly, Sam stilled. “ _No!_ First, you’ll be quiet. And then, you’re gonna explain.”

The other two stopped, for once actually listening. Though that might have had something to do with the fact that the minibot was nearly shouting. First Aid stared at him with a surprised and slightly hurt look, while the plates on Ratchet’s arm twitched. Both were thankfully silent.

“Slowly now, I want to see if I have this straight.” Sam lifted his head. “I can see bonds.”

“Yes,” Aid responded, “but I--”

Sam was quick to interrupt, “So the four big ones I see for you are?”

The younger mech backtracked to an earlier part of the conversation. “My connection with my brothers most likely.”

He went to Ratchet. “And yours?” the youngling asked before either of them could get in another word edgewise.

Ratchet had a peculiar cast to his face, something between impatience and embarrassment. “Wheeljack and I have known each other for a very long time. Since we went to the Academy together.” The chief medic hesitated, excitement dwindling. “And the other…”

“Mirage?” Sam hazarded a guess. For some reason, when he looked at that thread, it just made him think of the racecar. Though the connection somehow felt incomplete.

Ratchet nodded but said nothing. He turned away, belatedly closing his chassis with a quiet plink.

“Alright then.” Sam returned to First Aid. “And you wanted to know if I see this on other sparks?”

“Yes,” his friend said softly. “If that’s alright.”

The minibot gave a shrug. “I guess, but Bee’s on punishment detail for that trick he played on Tracks.”

“Who do you suggest then?” Ratchet finally spoke up.

“Er… well, it’s not like I want this thing--”

“Ability,” Ratchet inserted.

“Gift,” First Aid insisted at the same time.

They glanced at each other.

“--ability,” Sam corrected, “I don’t want rumors spread around about it.”

Which pretty much left out the twins. Any of the other minibots. Bluestreak. Optimus was still on the other side of the country in meetings with Secretary Keller and his lackeys. Prowl was undoubtedly camped out in ops. Perceptor had the tendency to mumble to himself, and Skyfire talked during recharge. Wheeljack--

“We’ll ask Mirage,” the senior medic decided. There was a sense of finality to his voice. “Arrogant slagger is special ops. They know how to keep their mouthparts shut,” he added with more than a hint of fondness.

“Fine.”

Sam agreed just to shut them up; he wanted this over and done with anyway but knew that they wouldn’t let him go until they’d confirmed their theory. Besides, Mirage wasn’t too bad. Ratchet seemed to like him well enough, and he was never really outwardly warm to anyone.

It didn’t take long for the racecar to arrive, and Ratchet must have briefed him over a private channel because he didn’t even question what he was supposed to do. He simply strode up the table Sam currently sat on and gave a greeting that was both calm and coolly inviting. He lifted a nonexistent eyebrow then, and Sam realized that his own chassis was still open, which he hastily closed with a nervous twitch. Mirage just smiled, and by the time Sam was over his awkwardness enough to look up, the white and blue mech had already assumed the position.

His spark was plum, the exact same shade as the fruit. Sam couldn’t help but think that it suited him in some bizarre way. Especially when he remembered that Mirage was supposed to be an aristocrat.

“Can you see anything?”

Sam jerked as Aid’s voice reached his audios. He’d honestly forgotten that he had an audience.

“Uh… yeah. His spark has them, too.” And the biggest one reminded him of Ratchet, but he wasn’t going to say that out loud.

The youngling promptly turned away.

“I should think that it’s a successful experiment then,” Mirage stated as he closed his chestplates and moved to stand a little too close to Ratchet, who didn’t seem to mind.

“Three’s not a very large sample size, but I suppose you’re right,” the oldest mech admitted. One hand absentmindedly brushed against Mirage. “And I do believe Sam’s had enough of this as is.”

The minibot didn’t even need to agree as he ran a weary hand over his head. “Can we talk about this more later?” He was quiet for several long seconds. “I’d like to go back to my room now.”

“I…” Aid’s attention flickered to his mentor, who made a dismissive gesture. “Sure. You can go.” He watched as the youngling slid from the berth. “Shall I walk you back?”

“I think I can make it there myself. It’s not that far,” Sam reassured him, but inside, he was more than ready to get the pit out of there. He’d had more than enough of the medbay and his freakishness for one day.

First Aid followed him to the door. “I know, but I’m also allowed to worry. And not just because I’m a medic or your roommate.” He reached for the youngling, but Sam pulled away. “This doesn’t make you a freak, Sam,” he commented as though reading the minibot’s mind. “Just different. Special.”

“I never said it did,” he deflected, already in the process of leaving. Sam didn’t bother to stop for Aid’s reply. He just kept going and out into the hallway, walking right by the door to his room and beyond.

Nobody on the base really bothered to lock their doors, except perhaps Red Alert. And while this certainly made it easier for Sideswipe – as if any lock stood a chance against him – everyone agreed it was probably for the best. Optimus thought it fostered a sense of trust and understanding. Prowl said that it prevented humans from ever being trapped inside. Hide just pointed out that they no longer had to break down Wheeljack’s door when he set himself on fire.

Nevertheless, it was very simple for Sam to walk right into Bee’s quarters and climb up onto the berth pushed against one wall. Bee obviously wasn’t there and wouldn’t be for some time, but the youngling really didn’t want to go back to his own room at the moment, not with his roommate almost certainly headed that way. He didn’t feel up to braving the rec or common rooms either with the tale of Prowl stepping on him undoubtedly spreading like wildfire.

Sam just lay down and stared up at nothing in particular, though he did notice the constellations that were painted on the ceiling. Someone – probably Sunstreaker judging by the level of artistry involved – had put in a great deal of hard work; Sam wondered what kind of blackmail Bee had on the golden twin to make him do such a thing. Or perhaps the effort of painting the intricate Cybertronian sky was challenge enough.

He had no idea how long he’d been there, just gazing at the ceiling, when Bee walked in. If the yellow mech was surprised to see him, he didn’t show it.

“Hello, Sam.” But at the expression on the youngling’s face when he sat up, Bee’s smile fell away.

“Hey, Bee.” But the greeting was halfhearted at best.

“ _Something's wrong, that restless feeling's been praying on your mind._ ”

Like always, Bee resorted to his radio. Normally, Sam found it amusing, smile-worthy even, but he just couldn’t dredge up the effort.

“I just had a bad day.” The youngling studied the floor without even the energy to look up.

The yellow mech walked over to sit beside him on the berth. “ _Tell me, tell me, baby._ ”

“Well, Prowl stepped on me.”

Bee let out a sound that may have been a snort. Sam’s optics narrowed in response.

“It’s not funny,” he retorted, but there was no heat to it. “I just… Can I stay here for a while?”

“You know that you’re always welcome here,” Bee returned in a gentle tone. “With me.” He trailed his finger down one arm as he leaned in to rest his head on Sam’s shoulder.

Some insane urge rose up in the youngling then. The desire to shove Bee away from him, turn tail, and never look back. However, it collapsed back in on itself as quick as it came. Leaving him hollow inside.

And despite the fact that he was an adult in human terms, a not so hidden piece of Sam really wished that his mother was there. Just like he had those few months ago when he’d become this way. He’d never before wanted his mom so badly before then. Not even after Mission City when he had run up to his parents and embraced them like the world was ending. When they had held on for what felt like hours but hadn’t been nearly long enough.

But Judy Witwicky hadn’t been there the second time, the last time. She hadn’t even seen him afterwards. Had refused to see him afterwards. As far as she knew and understood, her son was dead. Though the bots hadn’t even had a body to give her. This person – this thing – Sam had become was not her son. Just a poor replacement for the real thing.

An idle part of him wondered, even as his friend wrapped an arm around him, if he would come to hate Bee for that. For taking away his mom. For taking away his life. Perhaps a part of him already did. But a larger part… a larger part was just empty. Just tired and aching and in need of comfort.

Sam still half-wanted to scream at Bee for what he’d done. Instead, he just accepted the affection. Allowed Bee to draw him in closer. Too exhausted for anything else.

This – the thing with his spark – was just too much at the moment. Everything was too much. As if he wasn’t different enough already. As if they didn’t have enough of a reason to stare.

\-----

“Soundwave?” Sam turned the name over in his head several days later.

He was currently standing in ops and watching as the various bots did their thing. Prowl was behind him and to the right. A rather unnerving thing since the minibot could see him door-wings moving at the edge of his vision. Blaster sat at the comm. station, his apparent specialty, while Sideswipe hovered nearby with an expression that clearly said he wasn’t certain what to do now that he’d been replaced. Bee was at the station just a little ways over from them, but Sam still had no idea what its actual purpose was. All he knew was that it had a lot of shiny almost-buttons that would occasionally light up and make odd noises.

“Yes,” Prowl answered after a few seconds. “A Decepticon of some rank and significant skill. He is very proficient in a variety of fields.”

“ _Let’s talk. Let’s ta-a-alk._ ” Bee all but laughed from his seat and added, “ _Play that funky music right._ ”

Sam just stared at him. “So he’s either a DJ. Or… he works the comm.,” he hazarded with a faint smile.

“Yep. He’s like the Swiss Army Knife of the ‘Cons,” Sideswipe put in helpfully, but he subsided when Prowl glanced in his direction.

“You mean all sorts of neat gadgets come out of him.” The youngling tried to imagine what such a bot would look like. For some reason, he could only picture a mutant cross between the Batmobile and a news van.

“Well… in a manner of speaking,” Prowl acknowledged a moment later. “He has symbiotes like Blaster.”

Sam went to his new friend then. “Is he like your evil twin or something? I mean, you both do the comm. You both have little helpers. I could go on.”

It occurred to him then that he didn’t know where the symbiotes were, though they obviously weren’t there. It seemed that for all that people talked about them, they were never around. He just wondered what they did with themselves all day.

“Hey, man, don’t look at me like that,” Blaster replied amicably. “It’s pure coincidence; I’m completely unique.” He smirked at Sides. “I don’t think the world could handle two of me.”

The youngling just shook his head. “How can you be certain it’s him?” Sam asked Prowl. “I mean, has anyone actually seen him.”

“No,” the lieutenant allowed, “but we have noticed some strange signals originating from multiple places across the continent. Further, there have also been repeated hacks into the government’s secure lines, though we most likely would not have even noticed were it not for Blaster.”

His grin widened. “Just doing my job, sir.” Blaster gave Sam a wink that Prowl missed.

“This all seems to indicate the intruder is Soundwave,” the police car continued without missing a beat. “We are endeavoring to track his trajectory and landing site based on the satellite data the human military has provided.”

“Well, alright.” Sam honestly didn’t know what else to say. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Prowl not-lips pulled into a frown. “His creations have a tendency to enter our bases. Usually at the most inopportune time.”

“I bet Red Alert loves that,” the youngling commented.

“As much he does a broken security camera,” Sideswipe inserted. “Which is to say not so much.”

“They also,” Prowl went on as though he hadn’t been interrupted, “are known to attack minibots. Rather viciously at that. Given your age and lack of fighting experience, you would make a prime target.”

“So basically they’re going to pick on me because I’m short and young.” Sam scowled, but with his face, it came out as a cute pout. “I knew I should’ve taken those karate classes.”

The red twin patted Sam on the back. “Pretty much,” he replied but unexpectedly paused, one hand midair.

And Sideswipe looked at Prowl. Prowl looked at Sideswipe. Then, in an all too creepy simultaneity, they turned to look at Sam.

“Are you thinking,” Sides began, “what I’m--”

The lieutenant abruptly cut him off. “I believe some lessons in self-defense would not be amiss.”

“Self-defense,” Sam repeated as though this were a new concept. “And who exactly would be teaching that?”

“I have just the perfect bot in mind.” Prowl smiled then, and it sent a cold chill though Sam’s entire body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from: _Something’s Wrong_ by James Taylor, _Tell Me, Tell Me… Baby_ by N*Sync, _Talk_ by Coldplay, _Play that Funky Music_ by Wild Cherry.


	6. Blank Canvas

“What am I supposed do? Bleed on him?” Sam asked incredulously as he eyed his would-be teacher.

“Leak,” Blaster corrected from the sidelines. “We don’t bleed, man.”

“This is a nightmare,” Sam insisted. “And I just can’t wake up.” He stared up and up some more. Primus, he hated the fact that he was so short compared to everyone else. Even Bee still practically towered over him.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Sideswipe added from nearby. “He won’t really hit you. At least not hard or anything.”

Beside him, Bee shifted from one foot to the other. He seemed on the verge of dashing out into the training circle and jerking Sam away. Only the twins’ very close by presence prevented him from doing so, and Sunstreaker in particular derived great pleasure from this fact.

Sam, in turn, just sighed and flicked his optics around. Mostly hoping for an escape. He had quite an audience since apparently everyone and their brother wanted to see the kid get his aft handed to him. Naturally, the twins and Bee were there. All of the Protectobots minus First Aid. Swoop was their medic on standby, hovering near Fireflight, who seemed to have wandered in by mistake. Blaster and his symbiotes. Mirage. Smokescreen with a vaguely disapproving frown. Hound. Several of the minibots. Basically, everybody who wasn’t on duty.

And then, of course, his teacher.

Ironhide.

The youngling wondered if Primus was out to get him. Come on, Hide? The guy was more than twice his size and had cannons bigger than his whole head. He also happened to be freakishly strong and practically ran circles around Will and Epps whenever they did war games.

Sam was doomed. And if he died, he was going to make sure that Ratchet knew it was all Prowl’s fault. Would serve the bullying fragger right! Let him explain to the Hatchet what exactly had happened to everyone’s favorite – and only – youngling.

“Hey,” Ironhide’s voice suddenly cut into his thoughts. “Pay attention.”

“Er… sorry,” Sam was quick to reply. He gazed up again before shooting a pleading look to the sidelines.

“Alright, now,” Hide began with a bit too much enthusiasm. “If I were to come at ya, what would ya do?”

“Run away,” the youngling answered. “Run away very quickly. Possibly hide.”

The old mech shrugged. “Well, yeah. But what else would ya do?”

“He is hardly going to be taking on mechs your size, Ironhide,” Mirage commented from the closest wall. He watched the two in the center of the room, noticing Sam’s more than obvious apprehension.

Ironhide sent him a sizzling look. “I’m not as big as some. And the ‘Cons are hardly gonna stop cause he’s small.”

“The purpose to of this is to teach him how to evade or escape. Not to actually fight,” the racecar insisted, coming up to stand by Sam’s side. “He is far too young to be outfitted with weapons. He can’t even transform yet.”

“All the more reason he needs to know how to fight without ‘em,” Hide shot back. “Armor gaps. Pressure points on lines and seams. He can still learn all o’ those.”

“Er… I think Raj’s right, Hide,” Hound put in from the other side of the room. “It’s just his first lesson.”

“Give him a chance to get used to it,” Streetwise added with Smokescreen nodding in agreement next to him. “Won’t hurt us to be cautious at first.”

Pressing his opportunity, Mirage went for the kill. “He’ll have plenty of time to work on such things in the future. We don’t have to do everything right now.”

Ironhide hesitated. “Fine,” he all but growled a few seconds later and stomped over to the corner. “Somebody else go.”

Everyone paused to look at each other.

“Not you, Buzzing Bee,” Sides inserted as he casually placed a hand on Bee’s shoulder. “You’ll go too easy.”

“And not you either, Mirage,” Powerglide put in. “We all know you’d be a prime target for Ratchet if the sparkling gets so much as a scratch.”

“ _Youngling_ ,” Bee emphasized. “He’s not a sparkling.” He gifted his fellow minibot with a disgruntled look.

“Well, who’s gonna do it then?” Blades asked with a bored expression. “We’ve ruled out half of our best beginner trainers right there.”

They all glanced at one another again. Sideswipe shrugged, while his brother tilted his head to the side. Swoop shifted from foot to foot as Fireflight stared off into space. Powerglide muttered something that made Warpath chuckle. Ironhide huffed. Hound fiddled with something on his arm. Sam just inched for the door.

“Jazz really would be best for this,” Mirage acknowledged as he touched his fingers to his forehead and turned to Sam.

“Well, he’ll get his chance soon enough,” the youngling said as he abruptly froze. “Aren’t Ratchet and the science geeks doing the… whatever it was called? That thing Skyfire was doing all the math for.”

“A polymorphic integrated spark channeling,” Beachcomber supplied helpfully.

“Yeah, that.” Sam waved his hand. “Aren’t they going to try that like in a few days?”

“Yes,” Mirage cut in. “But that is neither here nor there. The task at hand is your training.” He carefully inspected the bots present.

“Fraggit,” Ironhide ordered, “just pick someone and be done with it!”

“I’ll go,” a voice volunteered from the doorway. The place he’d been watching this spectacle from for the last ten minutes.

And in some magical sort of unison, they all turned to stare. Red Alert merely gave a half-smirk. Although he did lift a metal brow at the sudden but not unexpected attention thrown his way.

“What?” he questioned. “I’m perfectly capable of showing him the basics.”

Mirage studied him for a long moment before nodding and moving back to the wall. That seemed to appease the older bots. Except for Bee, who fidgeted under Sideswipe’s grip. Blaster gave Sam a smile and thumbs up. Smokescreen crossed his arms over his chest, while Streetwise leaned back against the wall. Red Alert ignored all of them as he approached his new student.

Sam gazed at the mech skeptically. “Shouldn’t I – I don’t know – start smaller?”

“We’ll start here,” Red Alert insisted. “And then, when you know what you’re doing, you can practice on Blaster’s symbiotes.”

This seemed to be news to Blaster. “He can?” At Sam’s pleading look, he hastily backtracked. “I mean, sure he can.” He completely ignored the narrowed optics his symbiotes directed his way.

The Nissan merely looked at them for a couple of seconds before glancing away. “Ready, Sam?”

“Not really.” The minibot moved from foot to foot.

“We’ll begin anyway,” Red responded and stepped towards him.

Sam half-expected his meager life to flash before his not-eyes. As things were, death might have been preferable.

\-----

It was one of the few times he could recall being glad he was no longer human. Otherwise, Sam was certain his bruises would have bruises that would in turn have their own bruises. As it was, the minibot ached all over. And in places and parts he hadn’t even known he possessed. His “lesson” in self-defense really seemed more of an excuse to run him ragged than anything. After Red Alert, he’d received instruction from Hot Spot, Smokescreen, Hound, and finally Ironhide. And that was only yesterday. There was no telling what they’d do to him today. Tonight. Whatever.

So it was no surprise that Sam had made his escape. Sneaking out of his room, down the corridors, and up towards the surface with no one the wiser. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. The youngling was pretty certain that Prowl was onto him since they had passed in the hallway, but the lieutenant must have noticed how bad Sam felt and taken pity. He had simply kept on walking without a word, optics never leaving the datapad in his hand. Either that… or he had the worst situational awareness ever known to bot-kind. Which was doubtful considering his occupation.

Sam made it all the way to the door and outside. However, he paused once he got there. Not entirely certain what to do. Besides, he wasn’t exactly supposed to leave the base alone since Decepticons were still a threat, albeit a diminished one. And just as the youngling was thinking that, he heard a sudden noise to the left. Like the sound of a rock scrapping across the ground.

Slag! Someone was out here. Sam was foiled again. But just as he turned to beat a hasty retreat, a voice called out to him in the dimness.

“Hello, Sam.”

It was Optimus. Perhaps things weren’t so terrible, after all. His fearless leader would certainly protect him from those maniacs he called subordinates, and as such, Sam took a few tentative steps forward. He walked out of the entranceway and down the road in front of it, momentarily glancing back at the mountain behind him. He carefully picked his way over to the left and across the rocky ground towards the voice he’d heard, still not able to see that well in the dark and having no convenient headlights. The youngling continued in this manner a short distance to a curve in the mountain rock. Only to trip on the metal foot sticking out.

“Hey, Optimus,” Sam greeted as he pulled himself from the ground. “How did you know it was me?”

“Prowl commed to say that you had headed this way.” The big mech thoughtfully tapped something on his arm, which produced a faint illumination. “He wanted to makes certain you were not by yourself out here. There are still Decepticons free and roaming on this planet.”

The minibot frowned. “So he did see me.”

“Between Prowl and Red Alert, not much is missed,” Optimus admitted. “Jazz picks up whatever slack exists. Of course, I’m sure that there are a number of things he knows that the others do not.”

Sam nodded sagely and cast around for a rock to sit on. “How was your trip by the way? I haven’t seen you since you got back last night.”

“It was… informative.” Optimus shifted his stance so that he could see Sam from the top of the boulder he was climbing, knowing that the minibot would take offense if he offered to help. “It amazes me how similar the human government is to our own. I suppose that bureaucracy is universal.”

It was a deft attempt at a dodge, but Sam still caught on.

“You went to talk about me, didn’t you?”

The older bot made an affirmative motion. “Yes, such things are better in person.”

“And?” Sam prompted.

“And the government has decided that it is better if Samuel Witwicky is deceased, if only on paper,” the prime replied in a soft tone, as if uncertain how this would be received.

“So I’m dead.” When he realized how bad that sounded, the minibot added, “Officially, that is.”

“Yes, officially, you are.” Optimus rested a hand on one elbow. “Which means that we will eventually have to select a more appropriate pseudonym for you. The name Sam will certainly raise eyebrows as they say.” He saw the youngling flinch. “However, there is always time for that later. The only humans with current access to the base and to you by proxy already know of your origins.” He paused after that and waited for Sam to respond, but the youngling didn’t.

Sam instead stared into the distance, digesting this new information. The thought of being dead wasn’t exactly new; his mom certainly liked to act as though he were. Nevertheless, it was different when everybody pretended the same thing. When the very government he was still technically a citizen of put it in all their records and files. When they wrote him off as an Autobot problem and nothing more.

He wondered what the other bots would do when they grasped that they were stuck with him and permanently at that. If by some weird chance they developed the ability to restore their world, they’d have to take Sam with them. It wasn’t like they could leave him behind now. Or that he had anywhere else to go. It felt like all of his bridges had been burnt to ashes and scattered to the four winds. He was with them now for better or worse. With them but not quite one of them.

“Do I bother you?” Sam unexpectedly blurted out. “I mean, that I was human. And now, I’m not.”

He hadn’t even meant to say the first part out loud, but now that it was between them, Sam felt an enormous weight lifted off his chest. In all honesty, he’d wanted to ask that for a while but had never had the opportunity. And if he were being really truthful, the youngling was more than a little frightened of the answer.

If Optimus was shocked by the question, he didn’t show it. “No, it doesn’t. I am not bothered, and neither are any of the others.” His blue optics were incredibly bright in the darkness as they flickered to Sam. “You were created by the Allspark itself, and that alone would be enough to quiet any dissenters. The facts that you were an ally before that and managed to defeat Megatron himself are bonuses.” He very slowly reached forward and laid a finger – all that he dared – on the minibot beside him.

Sam shuttered his optics but didn’t pull away. Still, Optimus could feel him tremble beneath the touch.

“Sam,” his prime began, “you are more than welcome among us. Are already quite famous among our current numbers in point of fact. And with new bots arriving all the time, I expect you to be quite the celebrity in the future. You accomplished what countless others have tried to do for ages. You effectively ended our war, or at the very least, severely harmed the Decepticon cause. That you did so as a youngling is incidental but extraordinary.”

Had he been able to, Sam would’ve blushed. He’d never heard anyone save his own parents speak of him in such glowing terms, and they were genetically obligated to think him wonderful. It was another matter entirely when the leader of an alien race believed that. Quite embarrassing actually.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Optimus insisted. “You are one of us, but even more than that, you are our friend. We will not abandon you for anything.”

There was a sense of finality to his words. One so strong that Sam was taken aback. Completely unable to formulate a response. Optimus, however, misinterpreted his sudden stillness.

The larger mech let out a rush of air, heavy and deep. “None of us were always as you see us now, Sam. We all started out in different places, had our own origins. Not all of them were all that special or noble or even extraordinary.” He saw Sam glance up at him, and Optimus took a chance. “Did you know that we found Bumblebee in the wreckage of an outpost? We did,” he assured his companion. “It served as a refugee camp of sorts before the Decepticons attacked and destroyed it. There were only two other survivors. A femme who died of her injuries soon after. And a medic who joined our cause only to be killed later on. Bumblebee himself was just a youngling at the time. Barely more than a sparkling. We kept him because we honestly had nowhere safe to send him.”

“I… I didn’t know that,” Sam admitted quietly. “Bee never really talks about himself before he joined you guys.”

“Not surprising,” Optimus stated. “Bluestreak shares a similar story, though he was older at the time.”

“Was it like that for everyone?” the minibot questioned.

The older bot shook his head. “Thankfully, it wasn’t.”

Optimus named several others and their beginnings. The fact that Ratchet had been in charge of the medical division before the war was no big surprise. Or even that Wheeljack had been second-in-command of the science directorate with Perceptor a fairly well-known and respected member thereof. Ironhide’s status as retired general and instructor at the war academy wasn’t a shock either. Sam had already know that Sunstreaker had been an artist of some renown with his brother as his manager and a merchant on the side, but he hadn’t expected to hear that they had once been fighters in the underground and highly illegal gladiatorial rings. Nor that they had been abandoned by their creator as younglings and sold into that life before their eventual escape.

Sam cringed at that part. “That’s awful.” He sobered as the mech beside him gestured in agreement.

“It was,” Optimus acknowledged. “Red Alert brought down several organizations such as that, but more sprung up in their place. He was a detective in his time,” he explained at Sam’s confused look. “A chief inspector. Rather famous for his skills. He was actually assigned to investigate Sentinel Prime’s assassination.”

The minibot whistled. “That sounds pretty high profile; he must have been good. Did he ever find out who did it?”

The prime gave a confirming noise. “He did, but the investigation… Let’s just say that Red Alert ran into a number of problems in his pursuit of justice. The perpetrators were never punished.”

“Why not?” Sam inquired. Aside from the war, he didn’t really know all that many internal problems Cybertron had had. “Was it political?”

“Very much so, but it is also a story for another time. Somewhat off topic,” Optimus redirected.

“I can live with that.” The youngling considered what he had learned so far. “So what did Prowl do? I know about most of the command staff but not him.”

“He worked for Sentinel Prime, my immediate predecessor.” Optimus let out a sound that may have been a laugh. “I believe the phrase is ‘personal assistant.’”

“Prowl was a secretary?” Sam couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

Optimus hid his smile behind his hand. “In a way. But he was far more like a lieutenant than anything. Prowl also functioned as a hidden bodyguard.” He studied his much smaller companion for a moment. “You may not know this, but Prowl is a Diffusion master. It is a type of martial art similar to the human Aikido. Prowl ran a school for it before being tapped to be my predecessor’s guard.”

“Cool. What about Jazz?” the youngling asked with more than a hint of eagerness.

His prime paused momentarily but quickly shook it off. “Do you want the official version? Or the version Jazz has admitted to me?”

That made Sam start, and he gazed at Optimus with wide optics. “How about we begin with the official and work our way to the other one?”

“Very well. Jazz was still a student when the war broke out. And that is all his records show.” The larger bot shook his head with a hint of amusement. “However, in his spare time, he was also a ‘liberator of personal effects.’”

Sam could tell that was a direct quote.

“You mean, a thief,” he concluded.

“Yes, it was the only way Jazz could afford his schooling. Even when working full-time,” Optimus added in a vaguely saddened tone. “He was never caught, and I would’ve never known had he not confessed as much to me.”

“He had to steal?” Sam questioned with something nameless in his tone. “Was poverty a problem on Cybertron like it is here then?”

“Yes and no.” The prime rubbed a hand over his face and attempted to explain. “Things were not always so fortunate for those from the poorer cities. Kaon. Vos. Other places. Or even the lower districts in Iacon and Praxus. Residents there often struggled to survive, while bots in the towers lived in opulence.”

That name rang a bell. “Isn’t that where Mirage is from?” Sam realized. “The towers?”

“Yes, but Mirage is different from most. He could never quite forget how others lived. Or sometimes didn’t.” Optimus gave a derisive snort. “My creator once told me that true evil is when bots know and watch but look away. When they see but do absolutely nothing. Mirage couldn’t live with himself if he did nothing.” He had a faraway look. “None of us could.”

Sam couldn’t possibly think of a response to that. So he didn’t even try. He just allowed them to sit – or stand, in Optimus’ case – in silence. The minibot simply turned what he’d learned over in his head, considering all of it. The pasts of everyone. The way Cybertron was. The fact that for all its physical dissimilarities, it wasn’t all that different from Earth.

“What about you?” Sam finally asked after some unknowable amount of time had passed. “I know you are the prime, the leader, but what did you do before that?”

“Me?” Optimus repeated, coming back to himself. “I was originally a student of Alpha Trion. He is – _was_ – a very revered, very wise, and very old mech. One of the oldest. Both Megatron and I were his students. His creations in everything but fact.” He hesitated, tilting his head back to gaze at the stars. “There is not a human equivalent for what I did, but it was a very respected position in our society.”

The youngling studied him. “What was it?”

“Essentially, I worked with the Allspark. I accompanied would-be creators and helped them retrieve sparks.” The older bot tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Not an easy occupation and one requiring a great deal of concentration and willpower. But more than worth it.”

“And Megatron?” Sam questioned. “What about him?”

“He was the Lord Protector. The head of the police and military, among other things,” Optimus replied with a soft voice. “He was older than I and always relied on his position as a source of pride. He was not pleased when I was chosen as the next prime. Even less so when it became reality.”

Something in Sam struck a chord. Like a sudden light bulb coming on in his head.

“You mean, when you became just as powerful and important as him. When he couldn’t lord that over you anymore.” The youngling rubbed his hands together. “Or maybe when he was no longer than most important or favored son to your teacher.”

Optimus shuttered his optics. “Yes.”

And Sam wondered if that was why, if Megatron’s rise to power and domination had been fueled by a desire to surpass his brother. The worst case of sibling rivalry the universe had ever seen. It was ironic in a way. And so terribly sad. That so many had suffered and died because one bot couldn’t get over his jealousy and inadequacy issues.

But he would never dare say as much to Optimus. And Sam never got the chance since his companion’s comm. chose that very instant to chime.

“Yes, Prowl?” Optimus answered out loud like he knew exactly who it was. “Yes, he is here with me.”

Sam decided it was kind of strange only knowing one side of the conversation. Even with phones, he could at least hear the static of the other end.

“Lesson?”

At that, Sam’s head snapped up. And he must have had an interesting expression on his face, like a cross between horror and chagrin, because Optimus had to stifle a snicker. Of course, those emotions were interspersed with absolute dread. The youngling ached and was tired and wanted nothing to do with their insanity. Regardless, he didn’t even have to ask Optimus to delay Prowl. His prime already knew exactly what he needed.

“Sam and I are in the middle of something important.” The taller mech paused as he listened. “Yes, very important. _And private._ ” There was some emphasis on the last part. “That will simply have to wait until tomorrow.” He again stopped to listen. “Yes, I’m certain. This simply cannot be put off. ” Another pause. “You go do that. Goodbye, Prowl.” With that, he ended their exchange.

“Something very important?” The minibot could hardly believe his good fortune.

Optimus gave a mysterious smile. “I always consider our conversations important. Besides, I have yet to tell you of my creator.”

“And the fact that I miss my lesson is completely incidental?” Sam shook his head.

The prime ignored that question and continued with his story. It was a long time before either of them went back inside.

\-----

“Why am I here again?” Sam questioned from his spot at the foot of Jazz’s berth, the only place he could stand and not be in the way.

“You’re training to be a medic,” Ratchet replied in a tone that bordered on outright hostile. So not that unusual then. “It’s good practice.” He scowled after that statement and wandered off to talk to Perceptor.

The youngling fought the urge to bang his head on something. Here, he was in the medbay yet again. Only this time, Sam was supposed to witness a scientific miracle or perhaps a sparkbreaking defeat. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Jazz. Or even really knew him at all. Just that he had no idea what was going on. Skyfire had tried to explain it to him several times, but Sam’s optics normally glazed over within five minutes. Two if he were especially tired.

First Aid, with that scary almost mindreading thing he always did, leaned over. “I don’t really understand what’s going on either.”

“Nor Swoop,” the Dinobot added from beside them. “Just know that Jazz’s spark will be fixed.”

“Or possibly explode,” Sam put in with a frown. “I mean, Wheeljack is involved. That’s always a bad sign.”

Aid started to chuckle, but he instantly forced a tranquil expression when said engineer meandered their direction. However, he didn’t even notice they were there. Too busy tinkering with one of the machines. Skyfire came over to join him, though he waved at Sam and the others when he did.

Sam leaned back against the berth as Aid and Swoop struck up a discussion about the upcoming experiment. Besides, the medics and science geeks, the medbay was otherwise empty. Completely cleared out on pain of disassembly. Not even Prowl, arguably Jazz’s best friend and his definite bonded brother, or Bluestreak were allowed to stay. The fact that Sam was surprised him. Though Ratchet’s logic about it did make sense.

“Alright, listen up,” the senior medic announced as he came back over with Perceptor and Beachcomber in tow. “We’re almost ready. So everyone not absolutely vital to the process go stand over there.” He indicated somewhere behind him, watching as his students and Beachcomber started to shuffle away. Then, he added, “You, too, Percy.”

The other mech drew himself up to his full height. “It’s Perceptor.” But he swiftly scampered away.

Sam hesitated for a fraction of a second. If he stood on the tips of his feet and reached as far forward as possible, Jazz’s foot was just barely in range. Sam did so, softly patting the in-stasis bot for good luck before slinking off to stand in the opposite corner. A far enough distance away for him not to be yelled at but still close enough to know what was going on.

Skyfire, in the meantime, attached a number of long and thin wires to Jazz’s chassis. Ratchet did something to the lieutenant’s chestplate as Jack tinkered with the large machine that was just to the right of them and by Jazz’s head. This went on for some time before they all completed their tasks, and Skyfire backed away to a nearby berth. Ratchet went to stand by his friend and gave a firm nod when the scientist glanced at him. Wheeljack hit the switch.

Some lights flashed. Things beeped. Other things chirped and chimed. Something else hummed. Then, the power went out, and the entire room was bathed in darkness. Save the faint illumination of their optics.

The medbay came back online after a moment, and Ratchet hurriedly waved some weird doohickey over Jazz’s body. Jack brought out a different instrument and did much the same. Both of them fiddled and scanned for several minutes, but Sam could already tell things weren’t so good by the dejected color of the engineer’s headfins. That thought was only cemented when Ratchet muttered a curse and stomped back over to the machine to see what had gone wrong. Perceptor went to join him, while Skyfire rubbed a weary hand over his face. First Aid and Swoop exchanged a glance with Beachcomber, slowly inching closer to sneak a look.

Sam stayed where he was. Which was probably why he was the first and only one to see Jazz’s foot twitch.


	7. Sepia Tones

Had Sam been able to, he would have blinked and rubbed his eyes. Certain that he’d just hallucinated. He cocked his head to the side and watched, but nothing happened for several long seconds. And just as he was about to look away, the minibot saw it again.

A twitch. A simple little tremble. So faint that he would have missed it had he not been staring and quite possibly even then. And then again. A third twitch quickly followed by the fourth. The fifth was more of jerk, and some idle part of Sam wondered why no one else had noticed yet. For super advanced robots, they could certainly be oblivious.

Except no one was really paying attention. Ratchet and Wheeljack were tinkering with the machine used earlier with Perceptor hovering behind them. Beachcomber was off to the side, now fiddling with some sort of hand-held device, while Skyfire looked over his shoulder. First Aid and Swoop were less than a step away, lingering like they weren’t quite sure to do. And none of them even glanced at Jazz.

“Hey, guys,” Sam attempted to catch their attention as he took several steps closer. He watched Jazz’s other foot give a jolt, even as the plates on his leg shivered. “Er… guys? You might want to look at this.” He was in reach of the table now in case he had to do… well, _something_.

“Not now, Sam,” Ratchet brushed him off. “Do you think the pulse-phase distributor was miscalibrated, Jack?”

Now, both of Jazz’s legs quivered. The plates moved in a slow but random fashion, not at all rhythmic or connected. Sam watched with a dazed sort of awe, certain that any minute someone else would turn around and _just look_. Any time now. Any time at all.

The youngling tried again, “Ratchet--”

“In a minute.”

Now, Jazz’s fingers jerked. And the pulse moved steadily up both arms.

“Ratchet!” Sam all but shouted.

The medic’s head turned his direction. “What?”

Sam simply pointed. Ratchet looked in just enough time to see the pulse move all the way up the lieutenant’s neck to his face; he nearly dropped his favorite spanner in surprise. Then, Jazz’s dark optics suddenly flickered. Onlined with a virtual explosion of light. A bright blaze of blue where only a dull grey had been before. He momentarily gazed at the ceiling before suddenly rocketing up to a sitting position.

They certainly noticed that. But Sam was too shocked to note their reactions besides the startled gasps. All he saw was Ratchet forcing Jazz to lie back down, Wheeljack rushing over to help him. And there was a burst of static from the lieutenant’s vocalizer then, likely due to disuse.

“Ra… tch… et.”

Sam could barely make the word out. The sound was harsh. Little more than white noise with syllables thrown in.

“Ra… tchet.”

It was better the second time. Smoother. Easier on the audios. Much more like the voice Sam remember from what scant memories he had of Jazz.

“Ratchet. Wheeljack.” It was nearly breathless, an interesting thing for a giant robot. “I… I’m back.” Skeptical. Hopeful. “I’m really back.” One of his hands lifted to trace along his chassis.

Ratchet stared at him for a second before resuming his examination. “Yes, Jazz. You are.”

Jazz just gazed into space, face twisting into a grin that would’ve put Sideswipe to shame. He held up a hand in front of him, flexing his fingers before patting down his arms and chest. Undoubtedly, he would’ve sat up to examine his legs but knew better than to move with Ratchet around. A smart thing since the medic was now scanning him and muttering under his breath.

The lieutenant instead chose to glance around the room, and Sam could follow the path of his optics as they went to Wheeljack and then Beachcomber, who was now standing nearby. They flickered to Perceptor, who hovered just out of Ratchet’s reach, and next to First Aid and Swoop. Then, his optics landed on Sam and suddenly went white.

“You!” Jazz practically leapt off the table, moving so swiftly that even Ratchet couldn’t catch him.

“Me!” Sam tried to backpedal as the older bot grabbed him and lifted him off the ground. He was suddenly pulled to Jazz’s chest and squeezed. Feeling much like one of Annabelle’s stuffed animals. He now had a strange kinship with Mr. Mopsy.

“I love ya, man.” Jazz pulled back to look at him with optics impossibly bright and shiny. “Yer the best. The absolute best. Better than Prowler even.” Had he been human, his lip would’ve quivered.

“ _Me?_ ” Sam squeaked, stopping dead in his hold. “I mean, what? _Why?_ ”

“‘Cause ya are. And Blue is, too,” Jazz added with another squeeze. He peered around. “Where’s Blue?” He moved his head back and forth, drooping slightly when he couldn’t find the other mech.

“The hallway,” Skyfire said in a weak voice. “Why… are you so…”

“Normal,” Ratchet suggested as he forcefully pushed Jazz back on the berth. “Well, normal for you.” He looked at his patient with narrowed optics. “I wonder about that myself.”

Sam, who was now sprawled on Jazz’s chest, squirmed in his grasp. “Could you let me go?”

No one seemed to have heard him.

“S’not like I was gone or anythin’,” Jazz replied instead; he turned his head to face Skyfire. “I knew what was goin’ on around me. Could hear but not see ya.” His tone was flat and very obviously unhappy.

Ratchet stopped short. “ _You could?_ ”

“That is quite impossible,” Perceptor inserted, leaning forward to peek in.

“Apparently not,” Wheeljack countered as he handed something unnameable to Beachcomber. “All of his systems were active; his spark was just dispersed. So I suppose it could happen.”

Perceptor crossed his arms over his chest but remained silent as he considered the implications. In the meantime, Ratchet and Wheeljack continued their examination. Seemingly unperturbed by the fact that Sam was all but laying on their patient. Or that Jazz’s hand reflexively tightened around his arm as the senior medic poked next to his spark casing. They might not have noticed that, but First Aid certainly did. The red and white mech had stepped closer while Sam was distracted, now standing near enough to hand Ratchet the tools he silently requested.

And Sam just laid there, face practically in Jazz’s chassis it was so close; all he could see of the older bot was his silverish paint. He attempted to turn his head but was stuck fast, Jazz’s elbow somewhere near the back of his neck. What a pretty picture they must have made, Jazz and his minibot security blanket. It was quite embarrassing actually. Really embarrassing, if he was perfectly honest. At least the twins weren’t there. Better yet, at least _Blaster_ wasn’t there.

At that thought, the youngling squirmed again, but Jazz’s grip was like a vice. Even when he wasn’t paying attention, too busy looking at Ratchet.

“Get him off of me,” Sam hissed at Aid, feeling oddly nostalgic. Didn’t this bring back memories?

“Don’t you mean get you off of him?” the older bot returned with a grin. He thankfully reached forward to pry Sam loose.

But Jazz just didn’t want to let go. He dug his fingers in, wrapping his hands around as tightly as he could without risking damage, and Sam was pulled in so closely that the lieutenant’s chassis molded into the curve of his neck. The youngling wasn’t certain if this was intentional or instinctual after a fashion, some random bit of code urging Jazz to hold on. Not that it really mattered all the much to him at the moment. Sam was just glad he wasn’t human anymore; he surely would’ve suffocated by this point. Not that this was much better.

“Ack! Help!” He ineffectually put his hands on Jazz’s fingers and pushed with as much force as he could muster. Which wasn’t much. And Sam felt something in his arm pop in a distinctly unpleasant manner.

First Aid laughed and watched him continue to struggle. Some friend he turned out to be.

Ratchet, in turn, growled. “Stop struggling. You’re interfering with my scans.”

“Make him let go, and I won’t be there to interfere,” the minibot shot back.

No one seemed to have heard him. Or perhaps they were just ignoring him again. Used to this sort of behavior. Though thankfully Bee was far less clingy now that Sam had stabilized in his current form. But those first few weeks… they’d been bad. Very bad. Lots of time spent with his face pressed into various parts of Bee’s front with arms locked around his sides. Clutched to his friend like a sick infant to his mother. He had a feeling that the twins would be ribbing him about that for decades. Centuries even. They lived to torment others, but then, everyone needed a hobby.

Sam feebly struggled some more. Idly wishing that he were stronger than this. It was really no different than being human really. Only now, he made a bigger target. Primus, even Bee – one of the smallest besides Sam himself – could very easily manhandle him. He’d hate to see what would happen if he finally got on the Autobots’ bad side. Or ran into another Decepticon. He had the sneaking suspicion that they would find him a tad bit more interesting now.

His mind apparently wandered at this point, or he was simply distracted from being nearly crushed to death. Either way, the next thing the youngling knew, Ratchet was stepping away.

“Hm… You seem to be in perfect health,” the senior medic admitted, rubbing a forefinger over his own elbow in thought. “Everything checks out.” He turned his back for a second to consult with his colleagues.

“Finally!” Jazz all but shouted, noticeably relieved. He even loosened his grip, though not nearly enough for Sam to wiggle free. “I’m outta here.” He made moves to rise.

“Not so fast.” Ratchet was quick to insert, “I only said that you seemed to be fine. Not that you were. So just stay there for now. We’re not even close to being finished.”

“Aw! Come on, man,” the silvery mech whined; his hand tightened around Sam again. “I’ve been on my back for almost four years. Least let me sit up or somethin’.”

“Stay,” Ratchet commanded, as though his patient were little more than a naughty puppy.

“Please.” Jazz put on his most pathetic expression, but anyone who had ever seen Sides at work wasn’t likely to fall for it. Besides, Bluestreak’s was better.

Ratchet crossed his arms over his chest in utter disbelief.

However, First Aid was quick to use the opportunity to his advantage. “Let go of Sam, and you can,” he intercepted before his mentor could say anything further.

The senior medic turned to him with a raised not-eyebrow. Aid just tilted his head, optics locked on Jazz, who seemed to be considering his options. The lieutenant contemplated for a very long moment before slowly uncurling his hands from around his hostage. Sam was off the berth like a rocket, all but taking a dive to the ground. Beachcomber thoughtfully caught him and even helped the youngling steady his feet.

And Jazz slowly sat up on the table, arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster. Sam was willing to bet all the energon he hated, which was pretty much all of it, that he’d done that on purpose. Ratchet seemed to think much the same thing. He “accidentally” banged his patient in the arm as he leaned over.

The silver bot didn’t seem to care in the slightest. He just grinned. Smiled like the world was his oyster and he was the only one with a net. And he was still doing that when his attention flickered to Sam, grin turning more than a little demented.

Sam simply considered the possibility that the twins had a brother and he was looking at him.

\-----

“You seem very pleased that Jazz ’ s back,” Bee said nonchalantly over a week later.

The two of them were in his room, just laying on the floor and listening to music from Bee’s satellite radio. Sam glanced up at his friend’s unexpected comment, still humming the final bars to the last song played. Now that the clinging had been brought to manageable levels, he was rather happy. Jazz was just as entertaining as he remembered, and everyone on base was thrilled to have him back. Prowl had even been seen smiling, and he had actually hugged Jazz. In full view of everyone! Blue was practically floating on cloud nine, and that didn’t even begin to cover the rest of them.

“Of course, I am. Aren’t you?” the youngling returned. “He seems like a great bot. If a bit clingy. Not that I blame him. What with being stuck on a table for years and completely unable to move.”

Bee acknowledged that with a wave. “ _I don't wanna be lonely no more._ ”

“Pretty much,” Sam replied. He laid his head back down, certain that the conversation was over.

The music didn’t restart, however.

“You ’ ve been spending a lot of time with him lately,” the yellow minibot continued in an oddly serious voice.

Sam just gazed at the ceiling. “Yeah. So? He seems to like me for whatever reason. He and Blue are cool to hang out with. We play online sometimes. Jazz already has a paladin beyond level 80. I don’t know how he did it. I think he cheated.” He shook his head. “Do you know how long it took me to get my mage that far?” The youngling gestured for emphasis. “Blue is even worse. He’s got this weird elf-chick who kicks the slag out of all of us.”

“Us?” his companion asked softly. There was something in his voice. Something peculiar and vaguely frightening.

Sam shrugged, glad that his joints no longer creaked at the motion. “Well, the twins play with us sometimes. So do First Aid and his brothers. Occasionally, Smokescreen will.” He made a face at the name. “Oh… and Mirage, too. He’s like this dark lord guy. Go figure.”

“When did you set this all up?” Bee hesitated for a very long second, but Sam didn’t catch his reluctance. “Does the communications officer play as well?” There was a deceptive lightness to his tone.

“Who? Blaster?” Sam rubbed his face with one hand. “No, not really. He doesn’t like it all that much. He’d rather watch clips on YouTube.” He lifted one shoulder. “We’re not really in that far, all things considered. You could probably catch up pretty quickly if you want to join us. Jazz could level your character up if you asked nicely enough.”

When Bee didn’t respond, Sam rose up on his elbows. He glanced at the older mech, whose face was blank and empty.

“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

Bee was just acting so strangely. Like Tracks when he didn’t get his way. Or Ironhide when they beat him at Halo.

“I just… I haven’t seen you in some time, Sam.” His optics were so very blue it hurt to look at them. “ _I miss you, miss you. Where are you…_ ”

The youngling felt something inside him squirm. “We’ve just been busy. You’ve had a lot of patrols during the day these last few weeks, and Prowl has me running around the base at all hours. It’s not like I’ve been purposely avoiding you.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. A partial lie at the utmost. Sam had just been distracted. He’d also been spending a lot of time with Blaster since the bot didn’t really know anyone else. And well, Jazz and Blue, too. Those two always seemed so excited to see him, and Jazz in particular wanted to hang out. To question him about Earth and all that he’d missed.

The others had also made their presences known. It wasn’t unusual for him to sit with Mirage and Wheeljack in the rec room during the evenings. Or to be in the medbay with Ratchet and Aid at various times throughout the day. For him to share a cube of energon with the twins or Hound and Trailbreaker. For Skyfire and Beachcomber to invite him into their shared lab and attempt to teach him various things about Cybertronian science. Then, there were his almost daily sparring sessions with Red Alert and his merry band of volunteers. Very eager volunteers.

Honestly, there were only so many hours during the day. And Bee was often gone during the time Sam wasn’t in recharge.

“The others like to see me too every now and then,” Sam went on with a self-depreciating smile.

Bee inclined his head as if this made perfect sense. “Of course, you ’ re our only youngling.”

His smile fell away. “What do you mean by that?” Sam felt his spark jolt.

“You ’ re our responsibility,” the mech explained. “They’ll want to check in on you every now and then.” He said that as though it were merely a statement of fact.

The youngling sat up so quickly he all but snapped into place. “I’m not just an obligation,” he countered. “I do have friends.”

“I ’ m your friend,” Bee placated him. But the undercurrent in his voice suggested otherwise. Suggested that he was the only one Sam needed or had.

And that simply wasn’t true. Not in the slightest. Not at all.

“I’m allowed to have friends other than you,” Sam said somewhat defensively. “People can like me and want me around, you know. They don’t just have to tolerate my presence.” He stood up in a rush.

“I didn’t say that,” Bee returned, also sitting up.

“But you implied it,” Sam shot back, voice much louder than before. “Primus, I’m not a dog. I’m not your pet. You can’t tell me what to do or who I can see.”

Bumblebee’s optics narrowed. “I ’ m simply looking out for your best interest. We don’t know him.”

It didn’t take Prowl to see who he meant.

The younger bot crossed his arms over his chest protectively. “Well, I know Blaster. Maybe not for long. But long enough. And you shouldn’t say stuff about him. He’s an Autobot, just like the rest of you.”

“I ’ m aware of that--”

Sam was quick to cut him off. “Then, why are you questioning my judgment? If I like him, then that should be enough for you.”

“You ’ re so young, Sam,” the older mech began. “You don’t know the way things work like I do.”

“So what?” Sam demanded furiously. “You’re protecting me from myself?”

“Yes, quite honestly. I ’ ll do whatever is needed to protect you.” Bee lifted his head, making himself nearly taller than his friend even though he was still seated. “I ’ ll protect you from anything and _anyone_.”

With those words, Sam instantly deflated and took a step back. His spark ached in his chest, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

“From anyone?” he questioned with a soft voice. “Even from you?”

Bumblebee stiffened. “Sam, what did you mean--”

“Forget it.” The youngling waved him off. “I’ll see you later.”

He was out the door before Bee could do much of anything. His little form did have some perks, after all. Speed happened to be one of them.

The minibot stomped down the hallway towards his room, passing Mirage along the way. The racecar looked as though he wanted to speak, but Sam brushed by him before he could even get out a word. Groove and Sideswipe met with similar fates, though the latter seemed ready to chase after until his brother pulled him away. The youngling didn’t particularly care for the slightly hurt expression in his optics. But at least, it was covered up quickly enough.

Sam was just too busy being angry. Furious even. He was not a burden. Not an obligation. They really did want him here. Optimus had told him as much. Had promised. Promised that he was wanted and valued. Needed. That he was important to them for just being himself.

_He had promised._ Had looked Sam in the optics and really meant it. His prime wouldn’t lie to him. Not about this.

Prowl didn’t put his hands on Sam’s shoulders when he was pleased because it was required of him. Hide didn’t tell him he done a good job after a successful spar because they made him. Jack didn’t teach him how to cause explosions because he was forced to do so; quite frankly, they should want to avoid that one. And Ratchet didn’t smile at him, invite him back day after day because Optimus had ordered it.

And if Sam didn’t believe anything else, he could believe in that. No one ordered Ratchet to do something he didn’t want. Not and plan to live long. It was best not to wake the sleeping dragon. To tempt Primus’ sometimes questionable mercy.

His room was empty when he arrived, although he could tell that First Aid had been by recently. Sam hadn’t seen much of the medic since Jazz’s resurrection; Aid had been too busy running interference between his brothers and the Aerialbots after an incident that involved pink paint, permanent marker, and butterfly stickers. A part of him really wished his roommate was with him, however. Aid had a way of seeing the truth of things. And Sam trusted him to tell it straight up. Besides, First Aid always made him feel better about himself. Like his mom when she would patch him up after all those times Trent had punched him on the way home from grade school.

If there was ever a time he needed Aid’s calm reassurance this would rank pretty high up there. Right under turning into an alien robot but just above being run down by Barricade.

Sam sighed. Just a simple gust of air through his intakes. But the closest he could get to the real thing. He climbed up his not-bed and sat there with his head in his hands. Wondering just who he’d offended in a past incarnation to make his life turn out this way. Either that or Primus really had it out for him. Or maybe just the universe in general. The curse of the Witwicky.

At times, Bee was just so… Well, he didn’t really have a word to describe what Bee was. Possessive. Definitely that one. Concerned. That one, too. Desperate. Lonely. Frightened. Confused. Or perhaps only Sam was the last one. Maybe only he questioned why Bee would do this. Why he would make Sam this way. Why he would claim to love Sam and then do something so horrible, so utterly violating.

A part of him dearly wanted to know, while the rest of him was terrified to ask. And a not insignificant portion of Sam wished that he had told someone. That he _could_ tell someone. A burning need just to say the words aloud, to admit it to someone besides himself. For them to know why he felt the way he did.

But there was no way in the pit that he ever would. It wouldn’t remain a secret if he did. Not something of this magnitude, and he had no idea what they’d do to Bee if they knew the truth. If they would punish him. How they would punish him. Or worse, if they didn’t. If they did nothing at all. Just let him go on after he’d hurt Sam so very badly. If they’d condone what he’d done. If they would agree with it.

Sam didn’t think he’d be able to live with them if they did that. Already, he could barely live with Bee. With himself.

There was an abrupt sound on the other side of his room as the door opened. It jolted Sam from his thoughts, and he craned his neck in just enough time to see Blaster poke his head in without invitation. Not that most of those on base bothered with that or anything.

“Hey, Sam, do you…” He hesitated, taking in Sam’s failed attempt to not look so very tired. “Are you alright, man?” Blaster took a step inside, and the door closed behind him.

The minibot could only guess what he looked like, but from Blaster’s expression, it had to be pretty bad.

“I’m fine,” he was quick to assure. “I was just about to recharge. You know how tired I get sometimes.”Sam somehow managed a smile. It honestly wasn’t that difficult when Blaster was around.

The older mech didn’t quite seem to believe him but chose to play along. “Sure. Younglings’re always like that.” He moved closer, regarding Sam with optics that were far too keen for his own good. “You sure you’re alright. Ya look… eh…” He made a back and forth motion with his hand.

“I just…” Sam paused, one hand rubbing his opposite arm. “I had a fight with Bee,” he finally admitted. “It was just so stupid.”

Blaster came over and sat on Aid’s berth, which was position along the near wall. “That happens sometimes. My lil guys don’t always get along with each other. Or with me.”

“I know, but I think this is the first time I’ve ever actually raised my voice to him about anything.” And now that Sam really thought about it, that statement was completely true.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he needed to assert himself more. Not let Bee bully him into doing things. Not let any of them do that.

Blaster gestured loosely. “That happens, too. Even the best of brothers fight. Look at the twins.”

Sam snickered. “Yeah,” he replied as he thought about their latest bout just that morning. “Especially them.” He felt his mouth lift in the corners.

“There’s that smile,” the red bot inserted in an amused tone. “Don’t be down, my lil friend. The master Blaster knows just what you need.” He stood and made a beckoning motion. “They’re doing a sparring tournament in a few breems.”

Sam just looked at him. “You’re serious.”

“Come on.” Blaster shuttered one optic in an approximation of a wink. “It’ll be fun. I hear that Blades and Slingshot are the first ones up.”

Sam couldn’t help but snort. There was a match made in the pit. An Aerialbot and a Protectobot. Especially those two. Slingshot still hadn’t managed to completely scrap those stickers off his fuselage.

“Oh, alright,” the minibot acquiesced after a minute. He wouldn’t miss this fight for the world.

“That’s the ticket.” Blaster watched him climb down from his berth but thankfully didn’t offer to help. “I’m glad that you agreed.”

“Well, since you asked me so nicely and all, how could I possibly refuse?”

The question was clearly rhetorical, but Blaster answered anyway.

“Haven’t been refused yet,” he replied playfully as they left, one hand finding its way to Sam’s shoulder. “Besides, it’ll at the very least be entertaining.”

Sam nodded and let Blaster continue to talk without further interruption. His thoughts were distant, mind elsewhere. Considering and regretting. Not what he’d said to Bee but what he hadn’t. So many things between them and neither ever gave voice to any of it.

Still, Sam quickly shook that thought away and focused on Blaster. No need to ruin his day any more than he already had. Even if he did idly wonder if Bee would be there. But mostly, he just didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from: _Lonely No More_ by Rob Thomas and _I Miss You_ by Blink 182.


	8. Watercolors

_“Ratchet,” Sam called out as he half-stumbled into the medbay. “Ratchet, are you in here?” He went in further, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, and his stomach jolted inside of him. But that was secondary to the stabbing pain in the center of his chest._

_A peeved voice called back to him, “I’m here. What do you want?” Ratchet came into to view, but his irate expression flitted away when his optics landed on the human in front of him.“Sam?” He bent down to get a closer look. “Are you functioning properly?”_

_Sam shook his head, and a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him. “Not really.” He swallowed by the bile rising in his throat. “No, I…” But his voice was unexpectedly weak, fingers tingling in a distinctly unhealthy fashion._

_“So I see,” the medic was quick to reply, and he turned then to shout at the open door on the far wall. “First Aid, get in here.” He knelt, poised to pick up his human patient._

_Sam barely even noticed, too busy trying to keep his feet. He swayed, head feeling like a thousand Frenzies were racing around inside. Mouth dry. Skin ablaze. Hands and fingers gone numb._

_“Sam?” A new voice called out to him, familiar but distant._

_He didn’t know what he would’ve said to that, didn’t even really recall where he was anymore. All Sam could comprehend was the fire racing through his veins. The burning in his chest, hot like the sun. Vision blurred until the world was a sea of colors painted in a wide stroke. Room spinning and spinning until the entire universe tilted on its axis._

_And the next thing Sam realized, the floor was racing up to meet him._

_He didn’t know how much timed had passed the next time consciousness returned, but even through the haze of pain, Sam understood that it had been awhile. His throat was sore, as though he’d been screaming, and his nose was filled with the distinct scent of the medbay, like antiseptic mixed with motor oil. Every part of him ached, even his hair, but it was a dull pain. As though someone had dosed him with medicine but it hadn’t quite been enough. And he could hear whispering in the background. However, it just hurt too much to open his eyes, took far too much effort. All he truly knew was an ocean of voices. Intermixed but diverse, and Sam strained to make out who it was through the ringing in his ears._

_The first was young and gentle but still strong, though with a distinct edge of fear. The second was older, a soft tenor filled to the brim with concern. Another was rougher, suited to moans and triads and not its current lilt of horror. The last was sharp and clear but muted, full of authority but so very frightened in that moment._

_Aid. Jack. Ratchet. And was that Prowl?_

_But even as Sam struggled to make sense of them, their words filtered through his consciousness._

_“How is this even possible?”_

_“How long?_

_“Will he survive?”_

_“I don’t… I just don’t know.”_

_His mind jolted then and blanked out. Struggling to comprehend, even as it started to shut down once more. And it was just as the black claimed him that Sam realized they hadn’t been speaking English._

_He awoke again to First Aid’s voice washing over him. A soothing murmur as large fingers very gently stroked down his arm. The sensation was strange, as though his body wasn’t really his body, but it was so relaxing, so soft against is icy skin that Sam nearly drifted away once more. But the noise of the door opening brought him back to reality. And he listened to the sound of footsteps, eyelids still too heavy to lift._

_“How is he?” the question was deceptively light but full of a thousand nameless things. And Sam was amazed by the sheer tiredness in Optimus’ tone._

_“Much the same. No better. But no worse. Ratchet thinks he’ll probably wake up soon.” There was a rush of air, almost like First Aid had sighed._

_‘But I’m awake. I’m here!’ Sam wanted to scream in return. But he was just so tired. So very tired. Chest throbbing painfully. Heart burning inside of him but outsides frosted._

_“And Bumblebee?”_

_Sam felt himself twist at the name, some part of him waking long enough to wonder. Bee? Where was Bee? Why wasn’t he there?_

_“Sedated in his room,” the junior medic replied. “The boss still won’t let him in here. We don’t need multiple patients. Not right now.”_

_They were both silent then. Almost deathly so. But Sam just contented himself with basking in their presence. Just allowed himself to float along, Aid’s touch lulling him to sleep. He only belatedly realized that Optimus had stepped closer, now hovering just out of sight._

_“Is he even going to remember?” Aid’s question was unexpected and resounding but filled with so much worry that Sam ached inside.“Will he even remember who he is? Will Sam really survive this and not wake up a stranger? Will he still be whole?”_

_Sam had no answer for that. And apparently, neither did his leader._

_“I…” But words seemed to fail him. As though for once in his long term as prime, Optimus had no idea what to say._

_Sam, in turn, simply laid there. Thoughts thick and heavy. Mind reeling. Sinking deeper from the weight of exhaustion._

_Then, he was pulled under again._

_The first thing he noticed upon waking was the absence of pain. It had been so long – how long? – since he’d been that way. Been free. Only the heat in his chest lingered. But it wasn’t unpleasant. Far from that. Just unusual_

_He experimentally wiggled a finger, expecting it to tire him, but it didn’t. Still, it felt odd. Strange. Peculiar like his skin was coated with something hard but pliable. Joints unusually stiff and unused to movement. His next two fingers felt much the same. As did his wrist and entire hand. The other one did as well. And his whole left arm felt that way as he brought it from beside his body and up across his chest. And when his fingers touched just above where his heart should be, he heard a very bizarre, metallic ping._

_Sam paused to contemplate that for several minutes. Wondering how such a thing was possible. Nevertheless, he mentally shrugged it off, not really caring at that time. He was just glad to be alive and pain free. He was alright now. Perfectly fine. All better. He was exactly as he should be._

_And then, Sam opened his eyes._

\-----

He staggered into the common room some indeterminable time after onlining. His recharge had been restless, filled with strange images and half-recollections. It didn’t help that he was still furious with Bee. Not even the tournament a few days earlier and Blaster’s eager company had been enough to cool his ire. Bee was just so slagging frustrating at times. Like a teenager who refused to grow up. Rather ironic since he was a couple thousand years old.

That thought resounding in his head, Sam grabbed some energon from the dispenser with an almost glare plastered across his face. He made his way to one of the many empty tables, this one tucked into a corner and as far from the door as possible. The better to see danger approaching and all that rot. Or maybe he was just on the lookout for certain yellow minibots. No names required.

Sam managed to make the climb into a seat. Only to half-collapse against the tabletop, barely missing his energon cube. More’s the pity. That stuff was still awful. He just stared at it, trying to pluck up the courage to drink, but none was forthcoming.

Time passed. Sam stared. The cube simply sat there untouched as the room filled up around him, but no one came over since it was very obvious he didn’t want company. Banished here as he was, Sam really couldn’t find fault in himself for his morose mood.

Ratchet was currently elbows deep in Blades – the result of yet another fight with Slingshot – and piss-poor company to boot. Aid had already commed in to warn the youngling away for the foreseeable future. And apparently, a Decepticon had hacked into the government network the night before and downloaded quite a bit of data before the link was severed. Prowl suspected that it was Soundwave, the same ‘Con Hound and Mirage had tracked to earth. Blaster was attempting to locate him, while Prowl figured out which files were taken with the help of Maggie and Glen. Which of course meant that the lieutenant was too busy to supervise Sam today. Even further, Red Alert was off with Ironhide, training some of the new military personnel at the nearby army base. Not even Skyfire was around, his lab in complete lockdown as he performed some top secret experiment with Wheeljack and Perceptor.

All together, this equated a very bored Sam with absolutely nothing to do.

Until that was, the twins walked in. Sideswipe sauntered into the room and immediately made a beeline for Sam’s table. Completely ignoring the fact that he was unwanted, not that he would’ve cared either way. His brother as usual followed in his wake.

Sideswipe simply strode up to Sam and pointed at him by way of greeting. “Decipher.”

It took a few seconds for Sam to catch up. “What?” he asked, trading a glance with Sunstreaker, who lifted the faceplates above his optics. Sideswipe was normally pretty out there, but this was a new one even for him.

“Decipher. It’s your new name.” Sides sounded so pleased with himself. “Well, more like a suggestion for one.”

The minibot gave him a look. “How on earth do you know about that?”

After all, Sam himself had only found out from Optimus the previous day. He’d barely even thought about it, too. More put out than anything that he was being forced to abandon the last vestiges of himself. The name was all he had left, and soon enough, there wouldn’t even be that. Sam Witwicky would truly be dead.

Sideswipe, not privy to his internal irritation, shrugged. “Prowl might’ve mentioned you needed a name for that paperwork Simmons had.”

“Yeah,” the youngling admitted. “But they don’t need it right this second. Just sometime in the future. Probably if and when they go public about you guys.” He made a vague gesture encompassing the room. “I’m not supposed to be me anymore or something like that. They don’t want all the crazies wanting to become alien robots.”

He paused as Bluestreak and Jazz came over to their table.

“Would that really happen?” Blue questioned as he sat down without so much as a by-your-leave. “I mean, would the humans really want to become like us. Don’t they like being themselves?” He seemed perturbed, as though he couldn’t quite understand why anyone wouldn’t be happy in their own skin. “Is being a human that bad? It doesn’t seem to bother Will or Sarah. And it didn’t bother you, did it, Sam?”

Sam nearly cringed at the guilelessness of his tone. “No, it didn’t. Being human is not bad. Just really different. And well…” He hinged on trying to find the right words. “It’s just different. Let’s leave it at that.”

“But _how_ is it different?” Bluestreak insisted, door-wings waving behind him and nearly clocking Jazz in the head before he climbed into a chair to avoid them. “What about it is different from being like us?”

Sam remained silent, not entirely certain how much he could say without completely giving himself away. He shifted in his seat as he attempted to come up with an explanation for something there were no words to describe. How could he tell them what it was like to eat ice cream or to have his mom tuck him in at night? To feel the wind blowing through his hair or to see his breath on a cold morning? How could he tell them that he hated being this way and honestly wished it had never happened?

“How _is_ it different?” Sunstreaker suddenly cut in. He gave Sam a look of actual interest.

“Yeah,” his twin added. “You’re like our human expert, but you’ve never really said.”

“I’ve been wonderin’ that myself,” Jazz inserted after a minute. “I mean, what’s it like?” He leaned forward eagerly. “Is it like being like us?”

Sam made a so-so motion. “Kinda. But not really. It’s hard to describe.”

“Well, try,” Sides insisted.

“I don’t know what to say,” the youngling replied. “What exactly do you want to know about?”

Sideswipe grinned and leaned in, too. “What’s sex like?” the red twin questioned unexpectedly. “Is it totally awesome? Because it looks awesome… if messy.”

His brother kicked him under the table. “Don’t ask him that, fragger.”

Sam put his hand over his face and desperately wished the floor would suddenly swallow him whole. But even as he prayed for Primus’ mercy, his thoughts drifted to Mikaela and their senior year of high school before they’d decided that they were much better friends than lovers. And judging by what he could see of Jazz through his fingers, the older mech knew exactly where his mind had gone.

“It’s a perfectly legitimate question,” Sides shot back before turning to Sam again. “Well, is it? Is it really like interfacing?”

Sunstreaker kicked him much harder this time. “How the pit is he supposed to know about that, aft-face? It’s not like he’s done that or anything.”

Sideswipe paused to think that over. “I hadn’t thought about that.” He petulantly crossed his arms over his chest.

Sam nearly sighed in relief. That, however, was short lived.

“Don’t you like being one of us?” Blue asked with almost unnerving accuracy, studying their youngest member from across the table. “I mean, you make it seem like you don’t.”

Had it been anyone else, Sam would’ve thought he was teasing. But this was Bluestreak, and while he was talkative to the extreme, he wasn’t known for being cruel. And of course, the twins were listening in with very clear curiosity. Optics ping-ponging back and forth as Blue looked on with earnest confusion and Sam tried not to squirm in his seat.

Thankfully, Jazz came in for the save.

“He likes it just fine,” he said. “Don’t ya, Sam?”

Sam clung to his chance like a lifesaver. “Sure.” He even managed to make his smile reach his optics. No small feat.

Silence descended then as Jazz left the table to fetch some energon for himself and Bluestreak, even as Sam contemplated his. Sideswipe was still pouting, while his brother inspected the chipped paint on his right arm and hand. Blue simply sat there and hummed, smiling and waving at other bots as they wandered by. And it was just as Jazz headed back over that Sides perked up. He looked at Sam, metal lips pulling into a smile.

“So Decipher?” the red twin tried again, remembering the very thing that had started their conversation in the first place.

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Just… no.”

Sides didn’t look the least bit daunted. “Sundance.”

“I’m not yellow.” He fought the urge to sigh.

“Blackjack?” His third suggestion was no better than the last two.

“I don’t even like to gamble.”

“Yeah, that should’ve been Smokescreen’s name,” Jazz put in with a chuckle. He sipped his energon and smirked.

Every optic drifted to the Audi on the opposite side of the room, but he was too busy going over his investment portfolio with Mirage to take notice.

Sunstreaker shook his head with disgust. “Clarity,” he submitted, turning back around.

“Er… That’s kinda girly.” Sam tried not to make a face.

The older bot shrugged. “Just a suggestion.” He went back to studying the paint on his hand.

“Blackout,” Bluestreak went on happily. “That sounds like an interesting name. I mean, it fits with your looks and everything.” He set down his empty cube.

The youngling tapped the table. “Wasn’t that a Decepticon?”

“Was it? I don’t remember.” Blue was stumped.

“Yeah, Blue,” Jazz replied. “He got slagged by Will Lennox during the fight for the cube. Or that’s what Hide told me. I kinda missed that part of the battle.”

There was a hard edge to his voice, and Bluestreak reached out to touch his hand, which had curled into a fist. Jazz’s attention flickered to him then and held fast. Neither of them said anything, but Sam had the feeling that they still managed to speak volumes.

“Pounce,” Sunstreaker said abruptly, very effectively cutting into the silence and forcing Jazz to look away.

Brawn snorted as he walked by. “That’s sounds like Prowl’s spawn or something.” He obviously had audios like a fox to have heard them over the noise in the room.

Jazz snickered, unease forgotten. “It does. It really does.”

“Well, come up with something better then, slagger,” the golden twin bit out. “I don’t see you making any suggestions.”

Jazz shrugged off the accusation. “I’m just wonderin’ what yer real name’s gonna be. Ya know, in Cybertronian,” he explained. “Ya know, yer gonna need that, too. Each of us has one, and it’s not right for ya ta go without.”

Sam glared at the table, as though blaming it for his situation. This really was getting out of hand.

“I don’t care.” He waved at Jazz. “Just pick something.”

“Me?” the lieutenant asked with incredulity.

“Why not?” Sam responded. “You’re just as good a candidate as any. As long as it doesn’t sound horrible or embarrassing, I don’t care what it is. Or who does it.”

Everyone at the table goggled at him.

“Creators normally do that,” Sunstreaker informed him. He had a very peculiar expression.

The youngling shook his head. “I know, but mine are hardly in the position to do it.”

“But what about R--” Sides jerked as he was kicked under the table yet again. “Uh… never mind.”

Sam glanced at him but decided to let it go. “Someone – I don’t care who – pick something, and we’ll just go with that. As if one name, isn’t bad enough,” he grumbled but added the next bit audibly. “You’re not supposed to name yourself. At least, not your birth name. Creation name. Whatever. So somebody else has to do it for me. Or it’ll never get done.”

“You really don’t care?” Sunstreaker inquired. “Designations are a pretty big deal for us.” He was rather surprised by the youngling’s nonchalance.

Bluestreak nodded. “Yeah. There’s like a whole ceremony and everything when creations are named. Whole cities can gather for it if the creators are famous enough. Hide told me once that everybody on Cybertron turned out when Sentinel Prime named his little femme.”

Jazz tilted his chin up. “I remember that,” he murmured. “I must’ve been only ten or so vorns old. Barely even a younglin’. He was assassinated not too long after that.” A finger tapped his cheek. “I wonder what ever happened ta her.”

The twins both shrugged. Sam figured that neither of them nor Blue had even been created then.

“Probably killed in the war,” Sunstreaker stated gruffly. “Most of the femmes were.”

“Yeah,” Jazz acknowledged in a very soft voice, “most of them were.”

The conversation was effectively dead after that point. Not that Sam really minded. Mentions of Cybertron as it had been were a bit disconcerting at the best of times and horrible when the others were reminded of what they’d lost. He understood completely; he didn’t really like to be reminded of his parents or Mikaela either. Their loss just hurt too much.

However, his reverie was soon cut short. Sideswipe, never one to be serious for long, abruptly slapped his hand on the table. Everyone else jumped, but he didn’t seem to notice as he gave Sam his most devilish grin and pointed with one finger.

“Maverick!”

Sam groaned.

\-----

He was hiding. He didn’t like to think of it that way. But truth be told, he was. And Sam knew it. He just needed a reprieve is all, and outside was pretty much the only place to find it. He just liked the view. Honest. The fact that his black paint very nicely matched the darkened desert was merely a bonus and entirely accidental. As was the rock outcropping he was currently ensconced in. One that conveniently blocked him from view of the base’s entrance. Pure and simple coincidence. Cross his spark and hope to die.

That reaffirmed in his mind, Sam just settled his back more firmly against the rocks and leaned back to look at the stars. Enjoying his solitude. Enjoying the absolute quite.

“If ya keep going off by yerself like this, we’ll have ta call ya Wander,” a voice floated out of the darkness.

The minibot jerked. “Primus!” he exclaimed as he grabbed at his chassis and peered around, pump doing flip-flops inside him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry. But I thought ya were gonna watch a movie with me an’ Blue,” Jazz commented as he walked to the front of Sam’s hidey-hole and crouched down. “We were lookin’ fer ya. Ya know, ya really should answer yer comm.”

“Oh, that was you?” Sam gave him a sheepish smile. “I thought it was Sideswipe. He’s been after me all day with more suggestions. And they’re all retarded.”

The older mech laughed. “That does describe him pretty accurately. I don’t know how Prowler has put up with him fer so long. Vorns of hangin’ around me, I guess.”

“If you can’t beat them, join them,” Sam sing-songed.

“Don’t knock it until ya’ve tried it.” Jazz made an amused sound before motioning for his companion to rise. “Come on, Blue will be worried if we don’t show.”

The younger minibot moved as if to get up. “I think he’ll be more upset if you don’t come than me.” He stopped short at Jazz’s look of surprise. “What? He’s got it bad for you, even I know that.” When Jazz still seemed surprised, he added, “Primus, everybody knows that. I’ve even heard Air Raid talk about it, and that guy doesn’t notice anything if it doesn’t punch him in the face first.”

The silver mech opened his mouth. Only to promptly close it. And Sam could practically see the gears turning in his head as he processed this revelation. Normally observant, the youngling could forgive Jazz for being a little off his game. He hadn’t spent the last few years hearing about nothing but his virtues from Bluestreak. Nonetheless, Sam couldn’t help but chuckle at the hopeful cast to Jazz’s mouth.

“You like him back,” Sam realized with green optics gleaming, his suspicions now confirmed. He watched with fascination as the plates on Jazz’s forehead gave a skittering twitch, very much like the Cybertronian equivalent of a blush. “You could try telling him,” he advised.

Jazz stared at him like he’d grown another head. His normally glib mouth was for once silenced.

“You could,” Sam repeated. “What’s there to lose? And it’s not like Blue is the type to be offended or anything.” He waited for a denial but was pleasantly surprised when Jazz tilted his head in consideration.

“I might just do that,” he murmured, very intrigued by the possibility.

Sam gave a pleased sound, and he was about to rise, when he noticed a distinct and vaguely frightening gleam to Jazz’s optics.

“Ya know,” the older mech said suddenly, “yer not too young ta be thinkin’ about that either.”

“What do you mean?” he wasn’t entirely certain what Jazz was hinting, but he had the feeling it wasn’t anything good.

“Ya won’t be a younglin’ forever.” A lecherous grin spread across Jazz’s mouth, making Sam’s danger sense tingle. “Hasn’t anyone ever explained it all ta ya? How we… ya know?” He made a very crude gesture, and purposefully misinterpreting the youngling’s horrified expression, he continued, “Ya see, Sam. When two – or more – bots love ‘nother very much. And they want ta share that love--”

“Ack. Stop that,” his friend interrupted, covering his audios. “I don’t ever need to hear this.”

Jazz smirked. “I’m sure that one day ya will want ta know.” He dug an elbow in the youngling’s side.

“Maybe,” Sam admitted. “Though I doubt I’ll ever get to use any of it,” he muttered under his not-breath.

But the lieutenant still heard him. “What makes ya say that?”

Sam gestured to himself. “Hello. I’m like a bazillion years younger than everybody else here.”

“Bee’s not much older than ya,” Jazz pointed out. “There’s a bigger difference between me an’ him than ya two.” He silently felt that the little yellow mech honestly wouldn’t mind the difference no matter how large it was. Jazz wasn’t blind, after all. He could see the blatantly obvious. Most of the time.

The youngling scowled at that comment. And something about his body language, his hunched over posture made Jazz pause. There was a strange tugging at the back of his processor, an odd feeling that he’d just missed something very important, but for the life of him, he just couldn’t figure out what.

“And,” Jazz continued with barely a hint of his hesitation, “Blue’s not much older than Bee. Or the Aerial and Protectobots more than that. Raj could be Ratchet’s creation, and the twins could be Prowler’s. Age doesn’t really matter ta our kind. If yer an adult, yer an adult.”

“I suppose,” Sam allowed but fell silent afterwards.

“That’s more like it!” The older mech made clucking sound and stood, dragging his friend with him. “No more of all this talk. Smile, lil bro. It’s a great day ta be alive.” Jazz slung an arm around his shoulders and all but hauled him back towards the entrance.

“It’s nighttime,” Sam countered with a half-smile.

Jazz waggled a finger in his face. “Still counts.”

“If you say so.”

The mech snorted. “I do. And I’m a lieutenant and older and smarter, not to mention better looking.”

“You almost sounded like Tracks right there. Or maybe Sunstreaker.” Sam’s grin became full blown as Jazz made a noise of disagreement. “Do you talk to Prowl and Optimus like this?”

“All the time. I don’t know how they lived without me, ya know.” He put one hand on his chest. “I really don’t. I bet Prowler cried into his pillow every night I was gone.”

“You guys can’t cry,” Sam shot back. “And you don’t use pillows either.”

“Sniffled then. Deep, sparkbroken sighs.”

Sam was about to make a smart aft comment in return, but he hesitated as he felt a peculiar tingling in his chest. Like a chill spreading out from his spark to run down his back and up into his processor. The sensation of being watched. He hesitated, dragging his feet as his head whirled around to gaze out into the desert.

“What is it?” Jazz questioned, concern in his tone. “Ya see somethin’?” He peered into the darkness.

Sam almost swore that he saw a shape. Saw _something_ out there. But he shook the thought away. After all, Jazz was with him, and he had much better vision but didn’t notice a thing.

“Nothing,” the youngling responded as he turned back around. “Just my optics playing tricks on me.” He allowed Jazz to steer him into the light of the entrance.

“Probably. Did Ratchet say when they’d finish adjusting?” the silvery bot redirected effortlessly.

“He doesn’t know. Maybe a year or two.”

Jazz made an interested noise, but Sam only halfheartedly listened to him as he prattled on. No matter how much he tried to convince himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes tracking their retreat.


	9. Grayscale

His named echoed through the hallway, and Sam abruptly froze, recognizing the voice easily. He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with this, but he’d been putting it off for awhile. Already, the others were giving him strange looks. Ratchet and Jazz were the worst. Almost like they both knew something was going on but couldn’t quite put a finger on what. And if he didn’t want their intervention, he needed to resolve this now.

The youngling fought the urge to sigh as he sensed a larger bot come up behind him, and he caught a hint of yellow paint at the edge of his vision. He didn’t need to be Perceptor to figure out who it was. There were, after all, only two yellow mechs on base, and Sunstreaker had the tendency to loom over just about everyone. Beautifully of course, but that was beside the point.

“Bee,” he replied by way of greeting. Not even bothering to turn around.

Bumblebee stepped into his line of sight anyway. “ _Baby, are you busy tonight? Are you busy?_ ”

He wanted to say yes. He really and truly did, but it would’ve been a lie. And Bee had this annoying habit of seeing through his.

“Not at the moment, no.” Sam fought the urge to squirm back as Bee took a step closer.

“ _Spend some time with me._ ” Bee gave him a hopeful glance.

Sam tried not to fidget. “Alright. What do you want to do? Watch a movie or something?” he suggested only halfheartedly.

The older minibot practically lit up with excitement. But even that didn’t make Sam feel any better. In all honesty, he just wanted to go back to his room and lie down. Not that such a thing would be happening any time in the near future. Perhaps the next century then.

Still, faced with the prospect of nothing but unadulterated Bee for the next several hours, Sam put his foot down. There was only so much self-sacrifice he could tolerate on any given day, and having already put up with the twins this morning, he had reached his quota.

“Let’s see if anybody else wants to join,” Sam suggested. Only twinging a little at the look that crossed Bee’s face.

The yellow mech was clearly unhappy with his addendum, but with the option of no Sam or sharing him, he chose to keep his displeasure to himself. Wisely so. If he’d said no, the youngling would’ve come up with an excuse to leave.

However, that didn’t mean that Bee himself couldn’t be sneaky in return. And he grinned then in a manner that would’ve put Jazz to shame.

Sam felt a tingle of warning shoot down his back.

“Well, I think I saw Sides--”

“Not him,” Sam cut in immediately. “No, just no.” He shuddered at the mere thought of more quality time with the red twin.

Sideswipe’s latest suggestions were all just as horrible as the first. Borderline made him sound like a drug addict. Calamity brought to mind only disaster. Ignition put him just this side of homicidal, and he was in no way encouraging the Aerialbots with a name like Nimbus. Was it any surprise that he had started to avoid the mech like the plague? Only, Sides possessed skills never before seen in his ability to pop out of random shadows and to instantly know where Sam was at all times. Going to the common room was like a death march, and he pointblank refused to go to the wash racks without backup. Being cornered once was more than enough, saved only by a passing Mirage. It was like having a stalker, only not as creepy.

Sometimes, Sam honestly marveled that he managed to get out of his berth in the morning.

“Who else then?” Bee continued, not privy to his companion’s inner monologue. “Blue ’ s on duty I believe.”

“Jazz,” Sam said immediately.

Bee shook his head, looking a tad too chipper. “In ops with Prowl.”

“Aid,” was Sam’s next choice.

The older minibot considered for a moment. “I heard that he was out training with his brothers.” He still seemed too slagging pleased.

“Swoop,” the youngling tried, feeling a tingle of panic.

“I saw him leave to go flying with the Aerialbots.” Bee didn’t even have to pause this time. Had he planned this in advance or something?

“Brawn?” It was a feeble offer. Coming out more a question than anything.

“Patrol with Tracks.”

Sam could tell that Bee was smirking inside. And he was willing to bet the next few hours of his life that the bot really had planned this.

Slag. He was fast running out of options. The youngling knew better than to suggest Blaster; that was a fight waiting to happen where Bee was concerned. Surely, there had to be someone left.

But Wheeljack had been in his lab when Sam walked by earlier, elbows deep in an experiment. He hadn’t even seen Skyfire for several days now. Beachcomber was off working on a project for the government. Ironhide was still training recruits. Red Alert was undoubtedly holed up in his office, and he had no clue where Optimus was. He wasn’t desperate enough for the twins yet. But it might just come to that.

He looked at Bee then, knowing this for a set up but unwilling to back down. “How about we see who’s in the common room and go from there?” Sam finally offered, realizing that there was always someone about this time of day. Hoping at any rate.

With any luck, it would be a nice, safe option. Like Hound. Trailbreaker. Mirage. Pit, he’d take Smokescreen. Windcharger even. Or perhaps Sludge.

What he got was Ratchet.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” Sam mused to himself as he stood just inside the doorway several minutes later.

Ratchet never went to the common room. Like ever. Only apparently he did when Sam wasn’t looking. But then, the youngling supposed he had to get energon sometime. He didn’t really exist off snark and the fire of his own hatred like Sideswipe often claimed.

Still, this didn’t really solve his current problem. Something that Bee seemed to realize as he turned to Sam with a noticeable grin.

But then, fortune smiled upon him. Cliffjumper and Hound got back from patrol. Looking relatively clean and intact for once. Which meant that Hound hadn’t managed to go offroading. Small favors. But it also meant that they hadn’t needed to stop by the wash racks, coming straight to the common room instead. Even better, Hound was a sucker for sad optics. Especially if Sam could fill them with disappointment and heartbreak.

Serendipity. Maybe the universe wasn’t really out to get him. Or Primus was having an off day.

Sam was practically giddy as he followed them to the energon dispenser, smiling when Cliffjumper turned to look over his shoulder. If the orange bot was surprised to see him, he didn’t show it. Though his gaze did flicker to Bee, who was decidedly petulant now that victory had been ripped from his grasp.

“What’s up with you?” Cliffjumper questioned as Hound handed him a cube. “You look like your pet turbofox just got run over.”

“Bee’s just been feeling a little off today,” Sam inserted before his yellow companion could even get in a word. “Want to watch a movie with us. It might just cheer him up.” It was surprising just how enthusiastic and honest that sounded. Really, he’d been spending far too much time with Jazz and Blue.

Cliffjumper lifted the faceplates above his optics almost like a human would their eyebrows. Hound, on the other hand, shook his head.

“Not today,” he replied offhandedly, working his way to a table. “Just getting a quick boost.”

Sam instantly turned on the charm. “Oh, I just wanted to spend time with you. I haven’t seen you in awhile. But if you’re busy, that’s fine.”

He tilted his head down to hide the grin that threatened to spill across his mouth. There were advantages to being this short, and one of them happened to be the fact that they couldn’t see his face unless he looked up. The youngling probably should feel bad about manipulating them like this, but when it came to life and death situations, all bets were off. It was every mech and bot for themselves.

He could practically feel the air heat as Hound cringed. Even as he heard Cliffjumper snort from across the table. Bee didn’t make a sound. Instead, he just sent Sam a nearly incredulous look.

“I’m sorry,” the green mech said in return. “It’s just that I already promised Trail, you see. And I’ve already put him off once. But I…” he trailed off then, shifting in his seat.

“Meh… I’m not busy,” Cliffjumper interrupted lazily as he set down his now empty cube. “What’re you watchin’?”

Sam, however, had already thought that far ahead. “No clue. Whatever we feel like.”

The older mech considered. “I’m game. Give me a few minutes though.”

Bee all but snarled then. Making a sound that wouldn’t have been unusual for Grimlock. Or Unicron. Not at all thrilled that he’d been thwarted. However, something occurred to him then. Something that caused him to immediately perk up, and a very frightening grin graced his face.

“Aren’t you still on punishment detail with Prowl?” Bee asked with what could only be called a delighted tone. As though he was pleased by his fellow’s misfortune.

There was a beat.

“Slag,” Cliffjumper mumbled. “I’d forgotten about that.”

All of Sam’s happy thoughts, his dreams of time not spent alone with Bee, evaporated instantly. One of his optics made a twitching motion, even as his spark sunk to land at the bottom of his chassis. And he was about to turn to Hound – his dear friend, his lifeline – but fate intervened.

“Fraggit!”

The youngling jumped. As did everyone else in a mile radius. He’d honestly forgotten Ratchet was there. Something that was apparently true for the others as well.

Of course, that lovely outburst was followed by another.

“Of all the idiotic things!”

Sam turned in just enough time to see Ratchet down the last of his energon and secret his datapad in that weird dimensional pocket the older bots all had. The medic seemed pissed, not that it was unusual. But this time, his ire was on the verge of epic proportions, and Sam could only guess what emergency had just been commed in. Undoubtedly something stupid and easily avoidable.

Ratchet was on his feet then, stomping around like a demented Dinobot. “Sam. Medbay now!” he ordered as he stalked by. “Fragging Fireflight crashed into a tree, and you’re going to help me pick out all the branches.”

The youngling was out of his seat so fast that he didn’t even remember moving. Forget the movie. A beautiful wonderful excuse had just effortlessly dropped into his lap. Perhaps Primus really did love him. Some of time. When he wasn’t sending Megatron after him. Or turning him into a robot.

So maybe Primus really didn’t like him much at all. But he did have his moments.

Still, Sam couldn’t help but be a bit skeptical about the believability of it all. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn Ratchet had just made it all up. Seriously. How Fireflight had managed to find a tree in the desert was beyond him. A cactus, yes. But a tree?

The minibot, nevertheless, dismissed that thought. Not wanting to jinx himself. Or burst the bubble of this timely miracle. Instead, he just trailed after Ratchet, trying not to look too eager. No one in their right mind – or processor – was happy or even calm when Ratchet got like this. Even Optimus ducked and ran for cover.

Sam was half-way to the door before he even remembered his audience. “Oh! Bye, guys.”

Hound just waved back to him. Not noticing anything amiss. Cliffjumper gave a mock salute before contemplating his empty cube and clearly wondering if he should get more. Bumblebee though resembled a kicked puppy whose master had just abandoned him by the side of the road.

“But Sam?” Bee called after him. “ _Where’d you go? I miss you so. Seems like forever_ \--”

“We’ll do it some other time,” Sam cut him off, waving vaguely. “See you later.”

The last he heard as he walked out was Cliffjumper snicker.

“You just got ditched.” The orange’s mech tone was outright mockery mixed with amusement.

He didn’t even need to see Bee’s face to know the expression that would be there.

\-----

Sam supposed that this was becoming something of a habit. A bad one at that. But the cool night air was soothing, calming, easing the tension in his frame. The shake of his hand as he curled it into a fist. The static surging over the metal of his body. The need to throw the nearest heavy object in reach. To scream and have a tantrum of epic proportions.

Bee really did bring out the best in him. Or perhaps he was just channeling Ratchet in his utter frustration.

Primus! He wasn’t a pet. Or a little boy who needed his hand held. No matter how often or how much he reminded Bee – reminded all of them – the message never got through. He wasn’t a halfwit or a half-sparked. And his recent movie-time with Bee was not an invitation for the older mech to hover around every minute of every day that he wasn’t either recharging or on patrol. He wondered why the bot wasn’t already pinging his comm. every ten seconds. Perhaps he’d finally taken the hint. Not that Sam was so fortunate.

They hadn’t fought. Not this time. But Sam kind of wished they had now. Wished that he had said exactly what was on his processor and not walked away. Wished that he had hurt Bee. Really hurt him. Not just the whipped dog expression. But something deeper. Something that reached right to the spark.

It was a cruel desire. Not at all like himself. But Sam couldn’t help it. Couldn’t figure out any other way just to make Bee leave him alone for a few hours. A few days if he were particularly lucky. He never was.

And odd but familiar sensation went down his not-spine then. The feeling of being watched with such intensity that it would’ve made his skin crawl if he were still a real boy. Sam knew without turning that there was someone behind him. A sixth sense that he’d had as a human but now kept as a bot. However, other than the fact that he knew it wasn’t Bee or Blaster, he couldn’t tell who it was without sneaking a glance. Just a slight turn of his head and an unconscious adjustment of his gaze to catch a glimpse of black and white paint. Door-wings held rigid and fixed. Optics a dark blue that somehow managed to be bright in the surrounding dimness. The word “police” was a dead giveaway even without the rest.

Prowl.

Figured that they’d send someone out here after him. Sam only supposed that the first lieutenant had drawn the proverbial short straw this time. He wasn’t supposed to leave the base, after all. Not allowed beyond sight of the entrance by himself. And he definitely wasn’t permitted to go this far. At a distance that he couldn’t even see the base proper. Only rocks and the occasional cactus or pitiful looking bush.

Still, Prowl was tolerable. He wasn’t demanding by nature and seemed to understand the need for silence. He simply stood at the edge of the youngling’s vision, a solemn sentinel just within reach if needed. But he wasn’t, and Sam honestly didn’t want him there. He liked Prowl, even if he didn’t much like himself at the moment. But sometimes, people just needed space. A place to sulk on their own. It was better than the alternative. Better than the still ongoing urge to bite things. He liked to brood in private, thank you very much. It was a one bot pity-party, and Prowl wasn’t invited.

But the minibot couldn’t exactly tell him that. Especially since most of it would probably go right over Prowl’s head. Not to mention that he would insist Sam accompany him back inside. A definite no-go option.

Instead, he settled for their current quiet. For the slight breeze as the sole noise between them. Only the dark of the desert, the overhead clouds obscuring the stars and blotting out even the light from the base. The soft almost-hiss of his hydraulics as he shifted and drew his knees further to his chest. The pinging metal of Prowl’s body, unnaturally warm in the cool air around them.

Like with all things, however, Sam’s near-solace came to a quick end.

“Jazz and I don't always get along,” the older mech said suddenly. Unexpectedly. Strangely.

“ _What?_ ” Sam flickered his optics. Almost but not quite like blinking. Not knowing where in the pit that had come from. It was completely out of leftfield. Slag. It was from outside the ballpark, around the corner, and a mile down the street.

“Jazz and I, we are very close,” Prowl clarified in a manner that didn’t clear up anything at all. “Bonded brothers if not created ones. Yet, we still disagree. Still feel annoyed with one another. Not everything is pleasant or always sociable between us. It is quite natural for you to feel at odds with another, but such things are only temporary and should not negatively impact your relationship.”

The minibot was certain that his processor was broken. It had to be. There had to be some sort of glitch up there. A frayed wire. A burnt out circuit. Honestly. Since there is no way that Prowl had said what he thought he'd just heard. Which sounded like some robot preamble to the caring-is-sharing lecture, something Sam hadn’t needed since kindergarten. Maybe – hopefully – Prowl was just making small talk, a passing comment, but he was so not the type. Like at all.

“What are you talking about?” the youngling finally managed after what had to have been eternity in the span of a few shell-shocked seconds.

Prowl tilted his head, not understanding the question. “I am merely trying to reassure you.”

Sweet Primus, Prowl trying to make him feel better? Trying to give him advice? It was like being sucked into the twilight zone. Only without the really suspenseful background music.

“About what?” Sam was hesitant to ask, but he really and truly didn’t comprehend.

Again, Prowl paused. His face had an almost confused quality. Akin to a monkey faced with a math problem. Or perhaps a computer that needed to describe what sunshine tasted like.

“I have observed that your relationships as of late have been strained. Particularly with Bumblebee.” His head inclined further to the side. “Is that not correct?”

Sam felt a flicker of annoyance at even the name, but he brushed it off. “Well… yeah,” he admitted slowly. Reluctantly.

He hadn’t realized that he’d been that obvious. Obvious enough for even Prowl to notice. And no offense, but he wasn’t exactly the most emotionally sensitive of bots. Someone like Jazz maybe. Bluestreak. Even Mirage or Aid. But Prowl? That was similar to a Ratchet who didn’t throw wrenches or a twin who behaved himself. Surely, the apocalypse was upon them. Sam half-expected Primus to suddenly pop up in the next several seconds.

But when that didn’t happen, Sam just rubbed a hand over his chin. “Yeah,” he repeated in that same slow voice, like he was only humoring the clearly crazy person and not actually agreeing. “It’s just one of those things. I’m sure it happens to everyone.”

As if everyone’s best friend suddenly decided that they needed to be a space robot and set about making that happen. But only after his other best friend had died, not to mention his dad. And then, his mom had disowned him followed by his government. Which was just after becoming mascot for a bunch of aliens and destroying a psychotic despot bent on galactic domination. And let’s not forget that he couldn’t tell anyone.

Sam was sure that happened all the time. An everyday occurrence. Really, it was a plot from a soap opera or an extraordinarily bad movie. One that would undoubtedly be a blockbuster.

Not aware of that inner monologue though, Prowl actually seemed pleased by his pronouncement. “Most certainly. You needn’t worry.”

Well, worry wasn’t exactly the word Sam would use.

“Of course not,” the youngling replied, sarcasm somehow masked. “I’m sure that it’ll all work out in the end.”

And wow! Didn’t that sound sincere? Honest enough that even Prowl’s slag-o-meter didn’t pick it up. That took skill. Especially since it was calibrated for Sideswipe, was sensitive enough for Jazz, and still managed to detect everyone else. If he kept this up, Sam might win an Emmy.

“Undoubtedly,” Prowl pronounced with the air of someone solving a great mystery, but he was silent after that. Like his good deed for the day was done and now he was free to be himself again.

Sam had the sudden urge to bang his head against the most convenient wall, but he was unfortunately without one. So he just made do with crossing his arms over his chest and staring out at the desert like it had personally offended him. A bush caught in his near-glare actually seemed to wilt a bit in response, but that might have just been his imagination. Just like it was most certainly his imagination that the shadow near that bolder on the right had suddenly moved. Purely imagined.

Prowl hadn’t reacted, after all. Hadn’t even moved a millimeter from his current position, optics slightly dimmed as they always did when he was tired. It wasn’t real. Just a nighttime mirage. A trick caused by too many monster flicks and time spent with the twins. With too little recharge and a thousand things on his mind. He was only seeing things, only seeing the dim glint of metal in the very faint light.

The minibot came up short and nearly did a double-take with his optics. A seeping cold shot through his frame as his gaze fixed on that point, reminding him of what it felt like on the first day of school when all the other kids stared. But the cactus by that funny-looking rook was not watching him; it was just his mind playing tricks on him. And no, he had just imagined the sound of sand and dirt scattering across the ground. It was just the wind. Just the non-existent breeze that had stopped blowing nearly five minutes ago.

Something inside of him fizzled. It might have been his heart if he’d still had one. Must’ve been his spark then. Doing its outmost to descend as deeply as it could to settle somewhere near his ankles. And he nearly jolted as a boulder sprouted what appeared to be wings from the very top.

Sam took a hasty step backwards, nearly ramming into Prowl.

“What is it?” the older mech questioned, steadying him, even as he scanned all around.

His gaze flickered back, but only stone remained. “I… Nothing,” Sam answered instead. “It’s nothing. Just seeing things that aren’t there.” Nonetheless, he felt another distinctive chill go down the area his spine had once occupied. The same sensation he’d had when Prowl was watching him earlier.

The lieutenant was on the verge of agreeing with him but stopped at the edge. He narrowed his optics then, fingers tightening on Sam’s shoulder and directing the minibot behind him. His other hand twitched and shifted, acid cannon freeing itself from its normal confines.

“Sam,” Prowl said in a deliberate tone, “go back to the base.”

The youngling didn’t need to be told twice. He took a hasty step in that direction, but he clearly wasn’t moving fast enough as he glimpsed another moving shadow. This one on a completely different side from the others.

Sam stopped short. “Prowl…”

“Back to the base,” the mech all but retorted, tone going hard. “Leave _now_.” His free hand jerked and spasmed like it was no longer under conscious control.

However, the minibot saw the not-shadow taking the form of something else. “But I--”

“ _Run!_ ” It was almost a shout, almost a furious sort of begging, but in the next instant, Prowl suddenly stilled. His optics gave an unexpected flicker, like a computer on the fritz.

Sam didn’t know what to do, going on instinct. He went for his comm. automatically, but all he heard in return was static. His thoughts skittered around what to do as he moved back towards Prowl. Only to watch as the mech just crashed to his knees. Both hands now jolting and failing to catch him as he fell all the way forward. His optics flickered one final time and abruptly died.

The night suddenly felt all that much darker as Sam put a hand on Prowl’s back. More than relieved when he could still feel the whirling tingle of spark energy. But that was short-lived at the prickling sensation now crawling over his body. The youngling turned in just enough time to see a shape emerge out of the dimness to his right, and he did what came naturally.

Sam ran like his life depended on it. Quite possibly, it did.

He went like Megatron was chasing after him. Sandy ground loose beneath his feet. Rocks barely making him stumble. Bushes not even having time to scratch him as he breezed by.

But he still wasn’t fast enough.

The youngling was unceremoniously tackled to the ground. Knees taken out from under him in a move that would’ve left a human paralyzed for life. If not outright dead. His metal body took the impact with a dull ring, far sturdier than his appearance suggested. The weight on his lower back wasn’t as heavy as expected. Certainly not belonging to something physically larger than himself. Yet, still near enough that the difference was probably negligible for life and death situations. For now.

“Caught you,” a vaguely feline voice stated with pride. “Caught you, little minibot.”

What felt like claws tapped on his neck but didn’t dig in.

“Barely bigger than us,” another replied. This one deeper but no less menacing. Belonging to a body with equally clawed hands that encircled his sides, though this one was upright and not on all fours.

“Such a delicate, youngling,” the false-cat continued. “And so very pretty.” There was a chuckle, rich and thick. “Pretty and perfectly tasty.”

Sam shuddered at that. At them as he felt something electrical jolt over his metallic skin. It left him aware but unable to move as those clawed fingers dragged him back towards Prowl. Were it not for the situation, it would’ve been amazing how he could see the still form of the lieutenant but not the bots touching him. And he got an even better look at Prowl as he was shoved down to the ground on his side less than a meter away.

“Oh, he is a cute one,” a new bot interjected, this one higher and breathless. “All that dark and delicious paint.”

“And those optics. I’ve never seen ones that color before,” a fourth chimed in, and an eagle-like head entered his field of vision, beak nearly scraping his cheek as it leaned in close.

“We’ll have fun playing with you,” a fifth added, a wicked tenor with a faint accent. “Won’t we, brothers?”

There was a round of laughter. Filled with humor and malice.

Sam cringed inside and mentally begged his body to move. It didn’t obey. And instead, he could only watch as the bots slithered closer to Prowl.

“Shall we finish him, creator?” questioned one of the not-birds circling around the cop car’s head. Dainty feet ripping an enormous gash down his shoulder and exposing the circuitry underneath.

Sam had a second to wonder just who was being addressed. Yet, that though flew from his processor as another, _much_ larger shape loomed from out of the night. Easing forward like it had formed from the shadows and been given life. Black metallic paint that would possibly be dark blue under normal light. Sleek lines artfully outlined with silver and hint of some other designs. Masked mouth and a battle visor that slid back to reveal optics of the most startling red Sam had ever seen. Dazzling and hypnotic with their blazing intensity.

“Negative,” the Decepticon leader replied. For surely, that’s what he was. “In no condition to follow. Autobots will be distracted with his care.” His tone was cool. A smooth monotone that was both intriguing and frightening. The voice of the monster under the bed that whispered promises of blood and horror.

The enormous mech all but glided over to Sam, heading tilting ever-so-slightly as he took in the minibot before him. Sam shivered under that look, pump squeezing in his chest, even as his spark stuttered. And he had the distinct feeling that the ‘Con knew. That he saw straight through him and glimpsed even that.

Something a lot like fear coiled within him. Dug at his innards until he was completely exposed before those optics.

“A youngling,” the ‘Con observed with that same startling and shattering tone. “A new youngling. Most interesting. Symbiotes, successful. Expectations exceeded greatly.”

Even though he couldn’t see them, Sam could practically feel their pleasure at his pronouncement. But then, the large bot turned back to him.

‘ _Sleep_ ,’ a voice in his head commanded, sounding just like the mech in front of him. And it was emotionless. Coldly efficient. Terrible. Indifferent to pain or terror or suffering. Merely observing with a casual and vague interest that held no true feeling.

‘ _Sleep_ ,’ he ordered again.

And Sam did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Busy Tonight_ by Nylons, _Spend Some Time_ by Eminem, and _Where’d You Go?_ by Fort Minor.


	10. Paint it Black

_The medbay was lit up bright as day, every light on and humming, burning as Ratchet and Aid bent over Prowl’s still form. Sam had the sensation of seeing through optics that weren’t his as he looked on, but it was a common one when he dreamed. An out of body experience where the form he occupied wasn’t his but still managed to be familiar. A hand was on his shoulder, smaller than his current ones but gripping with a tightness that let him know the bot could easily wipe the floor with him, and he was aware of others around him, sensed the thrum of his prime’s spark to his left and the flare of Jazz just behind and to the side. He didn’t seem to care at all about them, however, as he watched Prowl’s optics flicker to their normal deep blue before onlining firmly. But the lieutenant didn’t move from his current position, simply stared at the ceiling like he didn’t understand where he was or how he had gotten there._

_ “Prowl,” Ratchet prompted, and his voice was odd. Nearly strangled with concern and something a lot like agony. _

_ “Prowler,” Jazz tried instead, stepping forward to place his fingers on Prowl’s arm. “Prowler, how are ya?” _

_ “Confused,” the police car replied with absolute bewilderment. “What happened?” _

_ “What is the last thing you remember?” Optimus asked in return. Sam could tell that his face was hard behind his mask, tone agitated but steely. Hand a fist at his side. _

_ “I was in ops… No, I went outside,” Prowl said as he slowly sat up. “Why would I go outside? I wasn’t done with my shift yet.” _

_ There was an uneasy ripple that spread through those gathered, and the room suddenly seemed five times too small. Sam felt his spark flutter before Optimus sent out a soothing wave of his energy field. _

_ “Ya went out ta find Sam,” Jazz reminded him gently, normal mirth long gone. _

_ Prowl nodded. “Yes, Sam… He was troubled and had gone out there to think. I saw him leave on the monitors and followed. I found him, and we spoke.” His optics were glazed over as he struggled to recall. “We talked about friendship.” _

_ Ratchet and Optimus exchanged a glance over his head, while Jazz squeezed his arm and Aid hovered tensely nearby. Sam just stood off to the side, pump pounding in his chest and on the verge of exploding. _

_ “What else?” Optimus questioned. _

_ “What about Sam?” Ratchet asked at the same time. _

_ They looked at each other again. _

_ “What happened then?” his prime continued alone. _

_ Sam hung on Prowl’s answer, listened as the lieutenant struggled to piece it together, clinging to hope like a dying mech. But each word only made him tremble. Made his spark dim and pump sink down to his knees. _

_ “Did you see what happened to Sam?” Ratchet’s tone was hollow and demanding but also half-panicked. _

_ Prowl shook his head, gazing into nothing. “I do not… It doesn’t make any sense. There was something out in the desert, but then, I couldn’t move. I tried…” He trailed off, freezing completely and arm slipping free from Jazz’s now lax grasp. _

_ And Sam leaned forward eagerly. Praying to Primus with his every thought. Promising anything, anything at all that things would be alright. That they hadn’t gone as he dreaded. _

_ “Soundwave,” Prowl breathed. “It was Soundwave.” His optics held only horror. “Soundwave was there, and he… No. No. No… I could not… I did not… I’m sorry, Prime. Ratchet. I just…” _

_ But Sam couldn’t hear the rest of it over the unexpected rushing of his audios. Over the howl that tore itself free from his vocalizer. Over the echo of his body colliding with Prowl and taking them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs. _

_ “Bumblebee!” Optimus shouted. _

_ But it was a vague and fading sound in his mind. All he could see was Prowl. All he could feel were his fingers digging into the older mech’s sensitive neck wiring. All he could think about was how Prowl had failed. Had let their only youngling be taken. Had let S-- _

_ Suddenly, there were two sets of hands pulling him back, ripping him away. Sam struggled, but they were much too strong, wrestling him into submission on the cold ground. He tried to move, but Jazz was a firm weight on his back, and First Aid was already reaching for the relays in his neck. With a click, he felt his body become dead weight, unable to even twitch but still capable of awareness. _

_ “Easy, Bee,” Jazz said, mouth inches away from his face. “Take it easy. This ain’t helpin’.” _

_ Sam could hear the others moving around above him. The sound of Optimus steadying Prowl as Ratchet went to help them. Feel Aid just off to the side, manipulating some type of medical instrument. And he knew exactly what was coming. _

_ “I’m sorry,” Jazz whispered then. “I’m sorry, Bee. But we can’t deal with this now. We have ta figure out what happened.” _

_ Sam wanted to yell. To shriek in defiance. But he just couldn’t manage it. Could only watch in despair as he saw Aid lean closer out of the corner of his optic. Feel something dig into his frame before the world dissolved into blackness. _

Sam awoke gasping. Limbs attempting to thrash but held steady by restraints. Back pressed into the smooth surface of a berth. Or perhaps a table. He couldn’t be certain as he tried to tilt his head and peer around. But the minibot couldn’t even do that much. Entire body all but fixed in place.

“He is awake, creator,” someone commented dryly. As though it were a fact not already obvious.

“Indeed” was the reply, but it was emotionless and efficient. Almost like Prowl but lacking the undercurrent of hidden warmth. The vague amusement that forever revealed itself after one of the twins’ pranks. It was a frightening voice, so mechanical but oddly intriguing. Winding and wrapping its way through his mind and to his very core.

Sam couldn’t repress a shiver.

The mech – Soundwave, his mind supplied from out of nowhere – stepped into view then, dark paint glinting in the bright light. His red optics all but bored into Sam’s as he loomed over, and the youngling felt a trickle at the back of his mind. Like a cold rain that tried to come in through the window but was blocked by the glass. It tried the direct approach and then to slip in through the cracks, but nothing got through. Sam couldn’t quite understand why or how he did it, but his thoughts simply slid away like a shadow being chased by the sun. One step ahead and always out of reach until Soundwave shuttered his optics and looked away.

“Designation?” he queried after a long moment. Tone still detached and not the least bit perturbed.

Sam had the distinct impression that he already knew the answer. That this was a test of some sort. Perhaps seeing just how cooperative he would be. But honestly, the youngling didn’t see the harm in it. Especially with what he risked if he didn’t.

“It’s Sam,” he responded, surprised by how fuzzy his own voice was. “Sam Witwicky.”

There was a flicker in his mind again. The feel of something attempting to follow that line of thought back to the source, but it was once more rebuffed. Just as effortlessly as before. A deft hand that unconsciously and easily slipped his mind away.

“How utterly droll,” another bot replied, rich with disdain. It wasn’t Soundwave but one of the others. His symbiotes, weren’t they? Wasn’t he supposed to have them?

“One would think that they’d give him something more appropriate,” a different one added, landing near Sam’s head with the flutter of metal wings and the soft clink of talons.

“Especially with such a pleasing form,” the first agreed, now suddenly beside him, and Sam could just make out a feline face from the edge of his vision. “It simply doesn’t suit him at all. We will have to come up with something more appropriate.”

“Most certainly,” the second went on, each step a distinct set of clacks as he walked on the berth. “Don’t you agree, creator?”

“Ravage, Laserbeak, enough,” Soundwave dismissed as he came back into full view. He had something in hand, something long and metallic and rather frightening.

Sam had just enough time to stiffen as it touched his chassis before his body was on fire, lightening racing through his insides and a scream ripping from his throat. He could feel himself arching off the table, but his restraints kept his limbs firmly in place. Held him down as he thrashed and then stilled, unable to move despite the pain tearing into his system. It just blazed around his circuits, burning hotter before suddenly cooling into a faint warmth.

The youngling lay in a daze, dimly aware of his surroundings but not caring as he tried to process what had just happened. His servos and gears hissed at the unexpected rush of heat followed by the relative chill of the room, and the air above his chest was fluid and distorted from the spike in temperature. His fingers shook as he dug them into the berth’s surface, and his spark rattled inside him, flaring painfully, feeling much like the rest of him.

“Fascinating,” Soundwave murmured above him in a parody of Perceptor, studying a display. “Highly unexpected.” Then, he was leaning forward again.

The minibot didn’t even have the chance to react this time. Much less the next. Sam couldn’t even be sure how long it went on. Pure agony followed by a few minutes of shaky relief. Rinse and repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And scream until his vocalizer couldn’t handle the sound any longer. Until his audios even gave out and he couldn’t hear his own whimpers or Soundwave’s occasional mutter or the symbiotes’ mocking commentary.

As suddenly as it had all began, it just stopped. Soundwave simply walked away, symbiotes following in his wake. Went up to the exit, ushered the others out, and turned off the light before leaving himself. That was it. Nothing more or less. Torture followed by nothing at all. No questions or interrogation or demands. Just… _nothing_.

And Sam could only stare into the darkness. Left alone with his thoughts and the lingering ache in his circuits. Only the buzz of his own shuddering spark for company.

\-----

Sam was dreaming again.

_ Simmons was on the tabletop, a large holographic display in front of him. “We’re searching section by section here and here.” His arms swept out to encompass two large parts of the map as he addressed the group of assembled humans behind him. “Red Alert’s coordinating it all, and Blaster is backtracking every signal in a three hundred mile radius. You aren’t to bother them for anything. Nothing at all. If you need something, talk to one of the others.” _

_ The man continued in that vein for several minutes, but Sam felt his attention wane rapidly, too busy trying to contain his nerves. He could feel his hands clenching and unclenching. Legs practically twitching with the urge to race out of the room and start searching immediately. Even as he remember how futile and useless that would be. They needed to be organized. Needed to work together. Or else they’d never find him. And the last thing between them would forever be an argument. _

_ “You’ll be in teams,” Simmons was saying as Sam snapped his attention back to the matter at hand. “Reporting to either me and Bee back there or Ironhide and Will Lennox. Your job is just to get out there and look. Yes, manually,” he added, shooting a dark look at one man in particular, who had the decency to flush. “I don’t care if we have to look through every cave, barn, and ditch, we’re going to find this kid. He’s top priority. Doesn’t matter what other assignment you have, this comes first. You understand me?” _

_ The other humans traded a few glances that were followed by a murmur of agreement. Simmons nodded and was about to speak again when his phone buzzed. It didn’t even have the chance to make it through the first line of the chorus before he answered, listening for a moment before ending the call. His face was firm then, completely unreadable. _

_ “The head of Homeworld Security is coming,” Simmons said for the humans who weren’t able to tap into his phone line. “He’ll be here in three hours. Until then, people, your assignments stand. Now get going.” _

_ He made a shooing gesture, which was obeyed with a minimum of muttering. Simmons didn’t seem to care though as Sam strode forward and plucked him effortlessly from the table and transformed. Speeding down out of the hanger and almost running down three different humans in his haste to leave. But Sam just couldn’t bring himself to be bothered, to worry about that as he raced by. _

_ “Easy there, speed racer.” Simmons yelped as they turned a sharp corner and nearly clipped a building. “Causing a traffic accident isn’t going to help us at all.”  _

_ He was silent as Sam revved his engine and tore through a straight stretch of road. The human just watched as the scenery streaked by and fiddled with his phone, waiting for the inevitable call. The one that would either bring salvation or damnation. _

_ “We’ll find him,” Simmons said then, hand stroking the steering wheel. “I promise that we’ll find him, kid. You’ll see.” _

_ Sam didn’t say anything, just let out a burst of song through his radio as something like relief trickled through his core. If he had to be assigned a human, at least it was one who truly understood what was at stake. Who truly cared if they found him or not… _

Sam woke to pain. Not the all-consuming agony that seemed his closest companion now. Just a sharp jab of talons into his chestplates.

“Wakey, wakey, my delicious little youngling,” a voice purred in his audio. Dripping with a hundred unknowable but unsavory things.

Sam fought back a groan. Not even needing to online his optics to know it was Ravage. The ‘Con had taken a particular liking to him. Although “liking” was used lightly. Really a euphemism for loving to torment Sam in his own special little way. A break from the monotony of testing and experimenting.

“Where are those lovely green optics?” Ravage questioned then and tapped one with his foreclaw, a signal if there ever was one that the youngling should obey his unspoken command. “There they are. So precious and unique,” he announced as Sam flared his optics on, trying his best to stare straight forward and see nothing. “I do wonder how the Autobots ever managed something so exquisite. They just don’t have our sense of aesthetics, do they brothers?”

His question was directed at Buzzsaw, who made a dismissive twitter, and Laserbeak, who merely snickered. Rumble chortled darkly, while Ratbat just gave the impression of rolling his optics. The others contributed in a similar line, but further discussion was halted as Soundwave came into view.

And then, Sam once more knew pain.

\-----

Time passed in a dark blur. Trapped in the blackness he couldn’t tell how long it was from one visit to another. From one round of screaming and fire racing through him to the next.

Mind a swirl of Bee and Mikaela and dreams. Fractures of memory as he lay in the dark. Singing every song he knew. And when those ran out, speaking to himself about his life story, all the little things and details. Anything to fill the silence.

His first memory of learning to ride a tricycle with his dad holding onto the back just in case. Meeting Miles in kindergarten, the weird kids without any other friends. The sandwiches his mom made, two types of jelly and peanut butter in the center and sealed with a kiss in his lunchbox. Remembering his first day of middle school, of being shoved into his locker by Trent but rescued by Miles minutes later. Seeing Mikaela for the first time in eighth grade when he’d tripped and fallen over her. The Autobots and his grandfather’s glasses and Bee and running for his life. Mission City and the little creatures he’d made accidentally that had only lived as long as the Allspark energy echoed inside of them. Then Megatron and how utterly tired but relieved Optimus seemed. How over the moon his parents had been when he’d brought Mikaela home to meet them properly.  Miles screaming over the bots and then wanting nothing more to do with him.  His dad dying only months later and sitting in the waiting room with his head in his hands as Mikaela cried with him. His mom’s squeal of joy when he gotten into college, the first time she’d smiled in so long. Mikaela so broken on her hospital bed, the machines the only thing keeping her alive.

Bee and the Allspark fragment and the strange tingling in his chest afterwards. Going to Ratchet days later and passing out. Waking up to a metal body and being numb and not even crying because he couldn’t anymore but how First Aid had sat on the berth and held him as he shook. How he’d seen Bee out of the corner of his optics. How pleased his friend had been. How he had smiled, just a little. He had Sam forever now and betrayal and…

And Primus, he couldn’t think about that. Something else. Anything else.

The order all the bots had arrived. Optimus Prime with his unit. Then, it’d been Red Alert’s team. Wheeljack and the Protectobots. Tracks and Smokescreen. And someone else. One of the minibots. Cliffjumper. Definitely him.

Next, Skyfire had shown up.

No, he’d come with the Dinobots. Sam knew that because he’d been there when Mikaela had named them. Had taken one look at Grimlock and pronounced him the most awesome thing ever.

That’s right.

But before that, Prowl and the twins had come right after his mom had sold their house and moved to Portland with his aunt. And Bluestreak and Trailbreaker and the rest of the minibots were with them. And Perceptor. Couldn’t forget him now, could he? He’d asked Sam to strip so he could be scanned and probed. And he’d never seen Ratchet so angry or Prowl so embarrassed or heard Optimus laugh like that.

And Sarah Lennox had gone into labor just a week later. She’d been the only calm one as Will and Ironhide and Epps all panicked and ran around. Just carrying her own duffle bag down the hall to the front door and putting both it and Annabelle in Prowl’s backseat, having him drive her to the hospital with Sam and Mikaela following in Bee. And Will showing up an hour later after he’d finally realized she was gone. The baby so delicate and new with eyes just like Will and Sarah’s hair.

Spending the holidays with them at their farm over his breaks – winter and then summer and winter again – but getting the call just after dawn on Christmas Day that Mikaela had been in an accident on her way up to see her dad. That the road had been wet and her tires not as good as they should’ve been. Sitting in the ICU, holding her hand through the night. Feeling the beat of her heart against his fingertips but already knowing that the part of her that made her truly alive was long gone, and the doctors coming in, and could he donate her organs because there was nothing more they could do for her?

Being in the medbay afterwards with Ratchet, just reminiscing about her and all the others who had been lost. The terrified way Bee had looked at him then, frantic and petrified as though he’d suddenly understood some universal truth in all its horrifying glory. The sinking dread in his stomach as Bee became distant and distracted but forgetting about that as he mourned, and then, the Aerialbots showing up en masse. Slingshot not even there a full day before he and Blades were already in the brig for fighting. And Fireflight plowing into a mountain a few hours later.

And then changing. Transforming. And after the shock had worn off, the pleased gleam to Ratchet’s optics. The feel of Optimus’ hand on his shoulder and the way Red Alert looked at him with approval. Wheeljack so excited to teach him and the twins showing him how to dance. Waiting with Blue for Jazz to be fixed, Prowl so hopeful but unable to say it.

Finally, Mirage and Hound. Blaster. Who didn’t see anything but Sam himself. Who never saw the human who had been or a boy. Only a friend. Who was so lonely and empty like Sam himself but actually seemed to be overcoming it, trying to bring Sam up from the deep with him.

Now, Soundwave and being trapped in the dark. Screaming and begging and violation and pain and then blissful, hurtful silence.

And then, he was dreaming.

_ Sam was disorientated. The feeling of consciousness after being forcefully offlined. Body heavy and far too cumbersome to move a single inch. Disconnected from him. Almost like it belonged to someone else entirely and he was just hitching a ride, merely a placeholder as the owner was away. And even with that, he lay with his optics off, trying and failing to fight the rising dizziness and not at all liking the way the room seemed to sway around him. The sound of near-shouts and wrenches connecting with metal didn’t help matters either. _

_ “It’s been two orns,” Ratchet snarled as he hurled tools this way and that and stomped closer to where Sam rested. “Two! Damned Pit-born slaggers can’t even find their own afts with both hands and a GPS.” _

_ There was the noise of another pair of feet moving nearby. However, this set was much lighter and had a distinctly familiar cadence. Regal and nearly dancing with their smoothness. _

_ “Earth is only so big,” Mirage tried to reassure, but he sounded more like he was attempting to convince himself. “We’ll find him. It will just take time. Soundwave is… He is devious and tricky.” _

_ Ratchet snorted, and it was an inelegant noise. “It’s not just him, though he’s the slagging cause. The fragging humans have already pulled back their search. The only ones still looking besides us are Lennox’s team and that half-glitch Simmons.” _

_ Mirage didn’t seem to have an answer for that. Neither did First Aid as he cautiously joined them, not even saying a word and only identified by the ease with which he sidestepped his boss. Long ago trained to avoid the rampage. He simply glided out of the way like a well-rehearsed choreograph, two steps left for every move right the older medic took. Picking up the discarded tools without missing a beat and setting them in their proper place. But still, there was something off to his movements, something strange in the way that he hadn’t spoken at all. _

_ And none of them seemed to have noticed that Sam was awake. _

_ “They’re all we need,” Mirage said after several moments, but it was weak and unsure. “It will all work out. We will find Soundwave. And soon.” He rubbed his hands together, as though unexpectedly cold. _

_ “Pit,” Ratchet all but spat as he whirled around. “You don’t honestly believe that, and neither do I. Bee is out of his processor, and Prime isn’t far behind. Prowl is barely functioning, and Red Alert has run himself into the ground. Blaster and his symbiotes are pulling triple shifts with Sideswipe, trying to track his signal. Sunstreaker is running ops, while Jazz does interference with the human government. Not even counting the patrols all of them still pull. I haven’t seen any of the minibots for an orn. We’re scattered across seven states. Willy-nilly.” He made a cutting motion through the air, static cackling across his frame. “Cliffjumper and Tracks. Bluestreak and Gears. Slingshot and Blades are even on patrols together. Together! Willingly!”The medic let out a rush of air as he finished and would’ve been breathing hard had he been human. _

_ “And you haven’t recharged since this all began,” Mirage inserted softly, tiredly. Weak and weary. “Please, Ratchet. Rest. You need it.” _

_ “Bah. I’ll rest when it’s over,” he retorted, flinging some nameless instrument to the nearby berth. It hit hard enough to make Aid visibly and audibly flinch, but the senior medic didn’t notice. _

_ “Since you are the picture of rationality at the moment,” the racecar shot back. “We’ll need you in top form when they bring him back. Soundwave will not have been kind to him.” _

_ Sam could hear the gears in Ratchet’s arm stutter and catch as he squeezed the tabletop hard enough to leave finger impressions. His wrist servos made a horrible grinding noise and would undoubtedly need replacing in the future, but no one save Sam even noticed. _

_ “And I suppose you agree with him?” Ratchet asked, turning to his apprentice. There was an odd note in the question, something a lot like defeat. _

_ First Aid said nothing, however, arms curled around his chest as though hugging himself. Even from his place on the berth, Sam could hear his body trembling. The faint ping of metal on metal. _

_ “Aid?”  _

_ And Sam could tell that Ratchet was now staring at his assistant. Own fatigue forgotten. Swept away in the realization that something was wrong. _

_ “Aid, are you--” _

_ “He’s not coming back,” First Aid finally replied. And he sounded impossibly young and broken. “He’s dead, isn’t he? Sam… Sam’s dead.” _

_ Sam felt his spark flicker. Aid couldn’t possibly believe that, could he? But he could tell from their stunned silence, from the way that neither refuted the claim that both Ratchet and Mirage had to have already been thinking along the same lines. Had to think that, even if only in some small part of themselves. _

_ “You don’t know that,” Mirage whispered, and his voice was echoingly loud in the dead quiet of the medbay. “We cannot know that.” _

_ “But we would’ve found something by now,” Aid snapped, tone now agitated and far too vehement. Hands jerking in the air. “Some sign. Some trace of him. And we haven’t. Soundwave has killed him. Discarded or dismantled his body and left this world. There’s nothing left to find.” He paused for a second but was already in motion again before they could cut in. “Or perhaps they’ve already found what is left of him and won’t tell us. Can’t tell us.” _

_ “First Aid,” Ratchet began, reaching out to touch him. “That’s not true. It can’t be. It isn’t.” _

_ But Aid jerked away. “No. No. No. NO!”  _

_ The younger mech was shouting now, backing away until his back connected with one of the berths. And he sank to the floor, head clutched in his hands. Shivering so badly that he could do little more than that, couldn’t even move from Ratchet and Mirage as they knelt down next to him. He was pliable in their grasp, allowing them to pull him forward, but the noise he made was anything but comforting. The closest a mechanical robot from outer space could ever get to weeping. The sound of a lost child, wrecked and defeated. _

And Sam woke to the blackness with First Aid’s cries still echoing in his head. To rising despair and the realization that he was truly alone. That Soundwave had won without even lifting a proverbial finger. That he was trapped here and would never escape. That they weren’t coming from him. That they had already given up hope.

That this would be his end.


	11. Threshold

Memories.

_He just gazed at his hands. At his hands that weren’t his but apparently were. That were black and gleaming and metallic and not at all flesh and bone. That whirred and buzzed as he turned them over and flexed his fingers. That felt smooth but not soft as he rubbed them together. Warm but not in the way that they should be. Just as there was an almost-beat in his chest but not the way a heart should behave. And a great heat there as well, swirling and stretching out through every single piece of him, touching every molecule with a firm caress._

_Sam pressed his hand to his chest and felt an answering pulse in return. One that spread from his now bizarrely formed feet to the tips of his fingers up all the way to the top of his bald head. It should have made him feel warm, feel safe and secure and at peace. But he was only numb. Only dazed as he stared at his chest and then legs and then the rest of himself. As he just sat there in a hazy cloud, unable to understand where he was. Who he was._ What _he was._

_And then, he dimly heard the sound of something crashing against the floor and the sharp noise of air rushing into intakes. He slowly lifted his head up to see Ratchet gaping at him. Optics wide and so very blue. Surprised. Shocked as he took a step forward and to Sam’s side, scanning on automatic even as he reached out._

_Sam disconnectedly watched the medic touch his arm. Intellectually, he knew that it belonged to him, and he did indeed have the sensation and pressure of contact. But he was just so numb. So detached from it all._

_ “ _ _Sam?” a voice questioned then. Young but strong. Hopeful. “Sam?”_

_First Aid stepped into view, undoubtedly summoned by his boss. He cautiously approached, taking position next to Ratchet and very gently grasping Sam’s hand from midair. Sam hadn’t even been aware that he’d lifted it, hadn’t intended that in the slightest._

_ “ _ _Sam?” Aid prompted again, running fingers and scanners over the metal of Sam’s body._

_ “ _ _Yeah,” Sam replied in a voice that both was and wasn’t his. It sounded like him. But then, it also didn’t. Holding metallic echoes and undertones that were so subtle he doubted anyone but himself would ever notice._

_ “ _ _How is he even awake?”Aid questioned to his mentor, and while it was clearly not in English, Sam understood every word. “He shouldn’t be for joors yet.”_

_ “ _ _I don’t know.” Ratchet’s tone was distinctly troubled, and Sam could feel him trembling slightly from where the medic touched him on the shoulder._

_Sam was aware of Aid’s attention as it flickered back to him then, which was followed by the sensation of being studied intently. He knew that he truly had to be a sight to behold. Some not-human freak of nature. Metal and gleaming and completely removed from anything resembling sanity. He should be screaming. Having a mental meltdown. Clawing at his own face and not-eyes._

_Instead, he just sat there. Allowed them to do as they would. In a numb haze._

_ “ _ _Sam,” Aid began, so very concerned and scared, “are you…” He hesitated, as if unsure what exactly to ask._

_ “ _ _Functional?” Ratchet suggested. “In pain?” He waited for a reply, but Sam only gazed at his own hand like it held all the answers of the universe. “Are you even lis--”_

_ “ _ _What am I?” He turned his free hand over, paint glinting in the light. “What is this?”_

_And what was he? Not human. That was for damn sure. A cyborg? A robot?_

_Something like them? A bot with a spark. Transforming and everlasting. Power and strength. Immortal if not for war and accidents._

_Something like those little creatures in Mission City? Who weren’t sparked. And only survived as long as the Allspark energy echoed in them. A few days. A week at the utmost._

_Something in between? All of it? None of it?_

_A freak. An unmitigated disaster. A mistake._

_His not-eyes went from his hand to them. To the thousand things that ghosted across Aid’s face in seconds. To the hundred different emotions reflected in Ratchet’s optics._

_ “What am I?” _ _Sam asked again, all but begging._

_But neither had an answer._

Dreams.

_ The sunlight was warm on his frame, too early yet to be hot, but Sam knew that the desert would quickly heat up. Still, it was pleasant standing by the entrance to the base, luxuriating in the morning air. He never appreciated being up this early until he’d met Bee. Until the only time they really had while he went to high school was before and during the drive there. _

_ He just breathed in the morning air and felt the slight breeze as it ruffled his hair. Pulled at his clothes and brushed a bit of sand against his skin. It should bother him, that gritty sensation, but it strangely felt welcome. As though he’d forgotten what it was to be human. To squint at the sun and have to shield his eyes. To have the aftertaste of his mouthwash rolling over his tongue. To feel his stomach rumble and remind him that Sarah was indeed cooking breakfast inside and shouldn’t he go in? _

_ But Sam wasn’t quite ready yet. Just content to live in the moment. To listen to the gears and servos in Optimus’ leg shift as he moved to stand nearby. _

_ The silence between them was easy as the sun slowly rose in the sky, and it was just so wonderful to relax. To stand there and do absolutely nothing. There hadn’t been a chance before. Too busy setting up everything and getting organized. And meeting with the government and making repairs and a dozen other things. _

_ “Are you really sure it’s okay for me to be here?” Sam questioned then. And it was just as unexpected to him as to his companion. “I mean, I’m just a student. A kid. I’m not important at all. I’m not a soldier like Will or Epps. Or smart like Maggie and Glen.” _

_ There was the distinct sound of a chuckle. And really, how cool was it that giant alien robots could even do that? _

_ “I find you to be very important. I owe you my life, Sam. The lives of my comrades. You helped us at great peril to yourself,” Optimus said with such honesty, such emotion that he couldn’t help but believe. And there was the sound of whirring as he bent down. “You are more than welcome here. And always will be. You are our friend.” _

“ You will not be abandoned ” _were the words unspoken._ “ We will take care of you. Trust us. Trust _me_. ”

_ “Are you sure?” Sam asked in return. “I mean, I don’t exactly fit in or anything. I’m just Sam.” _

_ Optimus’ fingers were firm but forever gentle on his back then. “I am positive. ‘Just Sam’ is all that we want. It will all work out in time.” _

“ You are one of us now and always will be. ”

Delusions.

_ He woke to dimness. To hands soft and gentle, stroking his face. To warmth and something a lot like happiness brimming in his chest. To safety and security and comfort. To the knowledge that he wasn’t alone. _

_ “Mom?” he asked, certain that it had to be her. Certain that she had finally remembered him. _

_ But no one answered. _

_ “Bee?” Not a second choice at all. But the most obvious one. _

_ Just silence. And the wisp of fingertips ghosting across his shoulder. Quietly beckoning. _

_ “Aid? Ratchet?” he tried again, wondering but unsure. “Blaster?” _

_ No response except a tightening of the air. A tingle across his body as the entire universe shifted just a fraction. And perhaps that was his answer. _

_ “Primus?” _

_ It was little more than a stab in the dark, but finally, there was the sound of laughter, ringing and clear.  _

_ “Not hardly,” she responded. So full of amusement and affection. “Try, try again.” _

_ But this time, he knew exactly who it was. _

_ “Mikaela.” _

_ “Who else would it be?” _

_ Her words came from in front of him, and he onlined his optics to see her bright and smiling. Just as beautiful as ever. Dark hair shiny and eyes sparkling. Not the broken and lifeless form she had been at her death. _

_ “This isn’t real,” Sam said then, putting a hand to his head and just thumping. _

_ She sighed but kept on smiling. “Probably not.” _

_ “Am I dying?” he asked, needing to know but dreading the answer. _

_ Mikaela was silent for a long moment. “Maybe,” she admitted. “It’s really up to you, Sam. You can die here. Or try to keep going.” _

_ “But… But they’re not coming for me! They’ve given up!” he all but shouted, and the world went from peaceful to swirling and grey around him. _

_ “You don’t know that,” she replied, tone soft and attempting to calm him. _

_ It didn’t work. _

_ “I do,” Sam insisted, throwing out his hand angry and feeling the universe clench around him. “They know, and they’re leaving me here. They aren’t ever coming. They gave up. Just like everybody else.” _

_ “They haven’t,” Mikaela murmured as she inched in closer. “I promise that they haven’t.” _

_ “They have.” It was quieter now but just as fierce, frenzy falling to something like despair. “They really have. They aren’t coming. And they never will. And I’ll die here. And… And… And Primus, it hurts. He hurts me.” _

_ “I’m sorry, Sam.” She whispered it as if it really were the only thing she could say. And perhaps it was. _

_ Her hands were gentle as they reached for him. Trembling but light and almost sweet as they trail across his face. They shouldn’t be the same size. He was much larger now than he’d been as a human, but somehow, his face fit into the crook of her neck. Arms sliding around her back and holding on so strongly she’d suffocate were she real. Voice muffled against her shoulder as he turned to glimpse her face. _

_ “I’m afraid.” _

_ Mikaela looked so incredibly sad. “I know.” _

\-----

“How were you created?”

The voice was a monotone, chilly and crackling like ice, but somehow seductive. Urging. Twisting. Enticing him to answer. Making him want to answer. To give up everything he was and beg for more.

But he couldn’t do that. Sam couldn’t tell. He wouldn’t ever tell. Loyalty without limits. This ‘Con – _monster_ – would go after Bee. And Bee would be hurt or die. Or a hundred other horrible and terrifying and completely unacceptable scenarios.

“How did they do it?”

Again tempting. Persuading Sam that he needed to answer. That the pulse and beat of his spark had all lead up to this. That he needed to divulge his secret just like he needed energon to survive.

However, he hated energon. The taste and the texture and everything about it. And he hated _this_. This ‘Con and his little pack of glitches and his voice and the way he made Sam desire to give in. Want to plead for mercy. To beg for it to stop until his vocalizer gave out.

“How did the Autobots change you?”

Sharper now. Digging into his head since seduction had obviously failed. But somehow, Sam always managed to slip away. To slide to the side and just out of reach. Beyond his grasp no matter how hard he tried.

And try, he did. Over. And over. And over.

“Tell me.”

It was a command now. An order. Making Sam think of Prowl when he was furious and smarting over the twins’ latest prank. Or after the minibots had gotten into another fight. Or when Blades and Slingshot were at it again. But Prowl was never this frosty. No matter how annoyed he was, no matter how infuriating the action that spurned it, he was never cruel. Never hurtful. Warmth forever clear underneath the absolute exasperation.

“Tell me.”

A demand. Cold and seeping. Insides gone brittle and cracking. Breaking along lines and seams. Not like the hot anger of Ratchet when someone had done something so completely idiotic that words failed him. The ire-filled threats that let them know just how close they’d come to the edge and how utterly worried Ratchet had been.

“Tell me.”

Absolute authority. Forced. Claiming. Conquering. The mirror opposite of Optimus, who asked so little and got so much in return. Who didn’t expect miracles but made them all his own. Comforting and gentle despite his size. Having never once so much as scratched Sam regardless of how much littler he was in comparison.

“Why will you not tell me?”

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Soundwave didn’t deserve an answer. There were a million reasons. Each one stronger than the last. And no matter how much it hurt, there were some things Sam would never say. Not out loud. Not to the others, the Autobots. And sure as the pit not to this Decepticon.

But the questions just continued. Dozens. Hundreds. He’d honestly lost count. There were just so many.

“Where is the Allspark fragment?”

“Has it started to regenerate?”

“Was it used to create this form?”

“How are you able to block my scans?”

“Are you truly Samuel James Witwicky or a facsimile?”

“How did they make you this way?”

“Why will you not answer?”

Sam didn’t even know where one ended and the next began. Floating along without anchor. Lost in the stream of words. Adrift in the ocean of red optics and metallic tables underneath him and bland ceilings above. Pieces of his spark – _his soul_ – washed away under the tide of Soundwave’s demands.

Until finally, a different voice

“This isn’t working.”

It sounded like Rumble. At least, Sam thought that it was Rumble – male and youngish but rough. But he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. Head swimming and clogged with fragments of thought and memory and questions. Always the questions. And the ache of past pain.

Another spoke then. Ravage perhaps. No definitely. Sam would know _that_ voice anywhere. It would haunt his dreams for decades to come.

“Should we not wait for Lord Shockwave, creator?”

But it wasn’t Soundwave who responded. Sam could tell him from the others easily.

“That long?” another – maybe Buzzsaw – questioned. “He won’t be here for ages. Several solar revolutions of this world. Are we really willing to wait so long? The Autobots could discover us before then.”

Ravage scoffed. “They’re not smart enough to find us. They are still looking on the wrong half of this continent and will undoubtedly give up altogether before long.” His claws clacked across the tabletop, stepping over where Sam’s hand was still strapped down. “Besides, we are obviously not getting anywhere this way. As powerful as the creator is, this youngling seems to be immune. Lord Shockwave has other methods at his disposal. Ones that are undoubtedly more appropriate.”

“And what will we do with him in the meantime?” Ratbat inquired, tone soft and rather bored.

Sam could practically hear the smirk in Ravage’s voice, and it chilled him to the core.

“Oh… I can think of a few things,” he commented with mock innocence. “I do so love to play with younglings. Energon just looks so pretty on their frames.”

“That it does, brother,” Buzzsaw agreed. “So very lovely on that black paint.” He idly dragged a talon across Sam’s arm. Not even caring when it went beyond scratching.

“Negative,” Soundwave inserted before they could go on. “The youngling must remain intact. For now.”

Buzzsaw reluctantly pulled back and ruffled his metallic wings. Ravage flicked his tail forward, and Sam could just make it out from the edge of his vision. Everything was quiet for a moment before Laserbeak spoke.

“What shall we do then, creator?”

“I still think we should wait,” Buzzsaw inserted, hopping from the table to Soundwave’s shoulder.

The larger mech wasn’t fazed by the sudden weight. Accepting it as though it were a common occurrence and merely tilting his head as he considered. A minute passed and then two, and finally, Soundwave turned away from his captive.

“Capitulation,” he said with a mere hint of almost-irritation. “We wait for Shockwave.”

\-----

_A blur of green and brown and blue sky and white. All flowing by. Trees and houses and swamp a streak across his senses as his speed climbed higher. Odometer now pushing passed a hundred. The close hum of Jazz was just behind him. Mirage and that slagger Prowl further back. Ratchet and all the rest further still, going flat out just to keep up. Unable to match his speed in this form no matter how hard they tried. Or perhaps his determination just made him that much faster._

_Sam slammed on his brakes to turn at a dusty and deserted crossroads, gravel and dirt rumbling under his tires. And nearly spun out but managed to get back on track just as Jazz took the same corner. They continued on a few more miles until they reached a widening of the road and the two bots waiting for them there. He came to a screeching halt, inches from ramming into Sunstreaker. But for once, the golden twin didn’t seem to care. Just watching as Sam and Jazz resumed their root forms. Optics nearly white with anticipation and something altogether nameless._

_ “ _ _Where is it?” Sam demanded without preamble. “Where is he?”_

_ “ _ _Just around the next bend and a little down a back road,” Sides replied. Like his twin, he was the epitome of seriousness for once. Face and tone hard._

_Jazz’s quick hand on his shoulder was the only thing that kept him charging ahead as Prowl and Mirage came upon the scene. “Easy, Bee,” he said with a hint of warning. “We only got one shot at this. Let’s make it count.”_

_ “ _ _Report,” Prowl ordered, Sam stiffening at his voice._

_ “ _ _Some local said he saw these two metallic beasts in the area, but that was two of this world’s days ago. It took me and Sunny that long to get here.”_

_ “ _ _Then, how are you certain?” Mirage questioned in a way that made Sam only want to throttle him. “This is well outside the range of our earlier investigation.”_

_Sunstreaker gave a deadly smirk. “We saw Ravage. He’s been coming out every now and then and prowling around.”_

_ “ _ _How in the pit hasn’t he seen you two then?” Ratchet demanded as he rolled up with the rest of their group._

_It wasn’t a large one. Just who they could gather on short notice with everyone else patrolling other areas or hunting down additional leads. This wouldn’t be the first false one or dead end they’d had. Even then, most of the bots on this trip had caught up with them along the way, pushing speeds that would normally leave Prowl in a tizzy. Only First Aid, Hot Spot, and Red Alert were with Ratchet. Everyone else had either been too far away or in no condition to travel. To be perfectly honest, they’d nearly forced both Aid and Sam himself to stay behind. Only bringing both because Ratchet hadn’t the spark to leave them._

_ “ _ _Well, he hasn’t exactly been looking that hard,” Sideswipe shot back. “Thinks they’re too well hidden. Besides, Sunny and I know how to make ourselves inconspicuous when needed, and we did have the cover of night for awhile.”_

_ “ _ _Has ta be here,” Jazz concluded after a moment. He looked tired, nearly dead on his feet. And Sam vaguely recalled that he’d gotten the twins’ message while in California, which meant that he’d driven a few extra hundred miles than everyone else but had still managed to arrive on time._

_Red Alert inclined his head, seeming better for his recent forced recharge. “What’s the plan? We still don’t know if other Decepticons are here with Soundwave.”_

_Before Prowl could respond, Ratchet butted in. “The plan is that we go get our youngling back and shoot whoever gets in the way.”_

_There was a round of agreement to his statement, but a couple didn’t look entirely convinced._

_ “ _ _Prowler, we can’t exactly do that,” Jazz prompted, hoping for something more._

_But his friend didn’t give it to him._

_Prowl just lifted his chin, optics firm and unforgiving. “On the contrary, that is exactly what we will do.”_

_Sam wouldn’t settle for anything less._

He jolted at a sudden and very loud crash in the distance. Resounding in the empty blackness of his cell. It was followed by several others. Indistinct. Origin unknown and unknowable. Then near silence. His audios strained to hear more, but it was impossible over the sound of his own pump pounding and the whir of his parts as Sam tried to shift on the table, attempted to ease his restraints if only a little.

Minutes went by. Maybe even hours. And quiet only cut by the faint hints of what might be weapons fire.

And then… a scream, echoing and horrible, went through the room. Filled with the anguish of many voices calling out for one in fear and pain. Reached through him to ring in his very spark. Loud and terrible and awful. But somehow deliciously malicious, wonderful in a way that those who had hurt him now had it dealt back in part. Felt as he had felt. Suffered like he had.

But even as some not so small part of him rejoiced in that, another part of Sam was just tired. So very tired and needing of rest. Drifting as the silence stretched on once more. Pulling him under. Lost in the darkness.

_Sam squeezed for one final time before effortlessly and carelessly throwing the metallic remains to the floor. His fingers dripped with fluids, and he shook them free as he took a step forward and crunched the almost-feline head beneath his foot. It made a gratifying crunch, made the fire burning in him ease at just that little piece of revenge. Soundwave had taken something precious from him; it was only fitting that Sam returned the favor. One of his symbiotes was a small trade for the agony of the last two and a half orns. For the knowledge that their youngling was suffering. Maybe dying._

_He continued on down the hallway, emerging just in time to see Soundwave grab one of his remaining symbiotes and retreat through the far exit. Sam started to give chase, but Mirage pulled him up short before he could go a few steps. He struggled but stilled as the racecar’s words sank in._

_ “ _ _Revenge later,” Mirage cut in, tight but assuring. “We have to find him first.”_

_ “ _ _Yes,” Sam heard himself agree without hesitation. The fight in him now gone. Now focused on what was most important. “We do.”_

_ “ _ _Do we know where?” Aid asked hopefully, pausing to look up before once more tending to Sideswipe._

_ “ _ _Not yet. But Hot Spot just commed in,” the red twin said as he batted the medic away and tried to pick himself up off the floor one-handed. “Buzzsaw’s making a break for it outside. And Red says that Laserbeak and Rumble just went by him, but he can’t keep up in the underbrush.”_

_Against the opposite wall, Sunstreaker was in much the same condition as his brother. Dented with his paint badly scratched. But his hands were smeared with energon that wasn’t all his own. Evidence that he and his twin’s recent battle with Soundwave wasn’t onesided. But even though the Decepticon had now fled, he’d managed to get in a few parting shots. Leaving Sideswipe’s shoulder scorched and blackened and Sunstreaker with a large but shallow gash on his chest._

_ “ _ _I managed a few shots at Ratbat, but he escaped through a side-tunnel,” Mirage added as he surveyed the area, counting at least four hallways off of the one they were in._

_Sideswipe, still in the process of standing with Aid’s help, suddenly froze. “Jazz and Prowl think they’ve got something.” He again paused, listening to something they couldn’t quite hear. “They’re just down from here. But they need Ratchet. Where is he?”_

_ “ _ _Here,” the senior medic all but spat as he came out the same corridor Sam had used earlier. “You fraggers left me again. Where is he? Where do we need to go?”_

_ “ _ _This way.” Sides pointed in the direction opposite from where Soundwave had fled, and his twin unceremoniously dragged him to his feet and started pulling him along. “It’s this way.”_

_None of them needed to be told a third time._

A blink – a mere flicker of reality – and he was once more in his cell. Once again in the all encompassing black. In the silence. Just waiting. Not even brave enough to hope. He didn’t have any more left. It was all gone. Destroyed by screaming and pain and optics that seemed to burn through him.

Sam was just so tired. Impossibly so. He just laid his head back on the table and offlined his optics. Honestly not caring anymore. Slipping deeper. Further and further away. Not even really noticing the whoosh in the background, the noise of the door opening. It was probably just Soundwave again. Come to kill him finally. Mercifully.

That didn’t even bother him. Just made Sam let go a little more. Inch by inch. Fading into absolute nothingness. Refreshingly devoid of everything.

_ But then, a voice reached through his mind. Sad and hurting but familiar. Achingly so. Lovely as she was. Mikaela, brave and strong and far more deserving than the hand she was dealt. _

_ “It’s time,” she whispered. “It’s now.” _

_ “No,” he shot back, mentally turning away. “Just leave me alone.” _

_ “I can’t do that,” she retorted. “Not now. Not when we’re so close.” _

_ And it was like someone suddenly threw cold water over him and let off a bullhorn next to his audios before giving him a rough shove forward. _

_ “You need to wake up, Sam. Wake up. NOW!” _

He onlined to dimness. To the same room as before. But it was different now. There was light. Not bright and blinding like when Soundwave came. Softer. Easier. Followed by the inexplicable sensation of someone standing right next to him.

And Sam slowly turned his head to the side. He felt his spark flutter as he stared into a pair of blue optics.

Jazz stared back.


	12. Edge Detection

Sam held on a tightly as he ever had. Fingers dug in deeply, scrapping and biting into metal. Squeezing his hand until the servos inside ground against each other. Curled around with a death grip and clutched like his very life depended on it. In all likelihood, it did.

However, that was a thought beyond Sam at the moment. All he could see was the familiar face hovering just above him, and he knew that he should recognize this bot. Some part of him did, relaxing everything but his grip. But the majority of him just couldn’t figure out who this was. Who this mech could possibly be. Since there was no fathomable way that this wasn’t a figment of his imagination. That he wasn’t hallucinating. He had to be dying. This had to be one last desperation fueled delusion.

But it just felt so very real. The hand clasped in his felt so alive. It even wiggled in his grasp, and he felt the soft pulse of an energy field. Gentle and calming, like the mech was trying his best to be reassuring. To be believed. To have Sam look at him and know that this was reality.

And as much as Sam wanted to, he just wasn’t sure if he could. If he were capable of something so hopeful anymore. He’d just been in the dark too long. Spiraling down inside of himself so hard that he couldn’t even see the surface.

But then, the bot gave his hand another squeeze, cast a lifeline down to him. Forcing Sam to look at him. To take in his silvery paint, metallic and glittering in the light of the room, dark now gone. Optics a middlish blue. Not the deep color of Prowl or the impossibly glacial tint of the twins. Nicely in between and gleaming underneath the edges of a visor that retracted as soon as Sam looked at it. So very familiar. Agonizingly so. Name on the tip of his nonexistent tongue. Rolled around in his aching processor until it emerged from the haze.

Jazz.

Funny and charming Jazz. Who always had a smart answer for everything. And liked music more than just about anything. The lieutenant. Saboteur. Head of special ops. Jazz… his friend.

“Hey, lil bro,” Jazz whispered. “It’s been awhile. Let’s get ya free from this table.” His second hand – the one Sam wasn’t clutching – went to the restraints, expertly pulling them loose without even really trying.

Sam simply looked at him. He couldn’t do much more than that. His mind just wasn’t up to the task and actually responding took far too much energy anyway. And he was still so fragging tired. Exhausted even.

In the time it took him to think that, Jazz had managed to release all of the restraints. But he left Sam on the table, seemingly unsure if it was safe to move him. Especially with as bad as the youngling knew he looked in some places. Even as little as lifting him free could be enough to completely rupture a fuel line. Ravage and his brothers had not been gentle the last few times, and Soundwave had done the bare minimum to patch him up. He could feel the cracks and rough patches across his frame, achy and even a few still leaking with him unable to completely turn off his pain receptors. Most bots couldn’t without the help of a medic anyway, and Sam still didn’t know enough about his own anatomy to even attempt it.

Which meant that he couldn’t help his shudder as a finger softly ghosted over a fracture in his outer shell before trailing it all the way upwards to his neck. Jazz’s touch was easy on his face, calm and soothing, but Sam still wanted to desperately move away. It didn’t hurt as much as it could – as much as it _should_ – but the memory alone was enough to make him want to purge. They’d always been the gentlest right before sinking in their claws. Little light strokes that were inevitably followed by pain. By the sheering sound of his metallic body being pulled apart piece by piece. The crackling of his optic as it shattered, punishment for daring to offline it. The white hot fire racing across his neural network, piercing a thousand different points across his body like a knife dipped in acid. The sticky feel of his own internal energon as it dried on his frame and the sound of Ravage’s voice as he snuck a taste.

He gave a full body tremor at that recollection. At red optics that were so fiercely pleased and menacing, staring at him with the worst sort of malice and malintent. And it was all Sam could do to drive the memory away, to shove it into the corner of his mind where it would only slide free later on.

There was a blink then as reality righted itself. As Sam suddenly realized that no, Jazz wasn’t intentionally hurting him. That the older mech had his attention focused elsewhere, hand and fingers paused and no longer moving. Jazz was actually speaking again but not to Sam, and he had the sudden sensation that the two of them were no longer alone. That someone was there with them, lingering out of his line of sight.

“He won’t let go,” Jazz was saying in an aside that wasn’t meant to be audible but was to him. “I don’t even think he recognizes me. He hasn’t said anythin’ at all. Just stared at me.”

Sam had the distinct impression that the words weren’t for him, but he had no clue who else could possibly be with them. Who else would bother to come? Jazz alone was a surprise, but hadn’t the others given up? Didn’t they think he was dead already? Who knew though; perhaps they were right.

But then, there was the feel of another mech stepping close to them, crowding in next to Jazz all but towering over the two smaller bots. His white and red form was clouded with dirt across the front, as though he had been driving a great distance in less than ideal conditions. Yet, his hands were stark and clean, obviously wanting to reach forward but hesitating. They finally and very slowly inched forward after several spark-stopping seconds in an attempt to not startle him.

It failed.

“Easy there.” Jazz squeezed his hand tighter as Sam shifted away. “Easy. It’s just Ratchet. Ya know him. He’s just tryin’ to fix ya up.”

The minibot stilled at that and peered up at the mech before him. He looked like Ratchet, but he couldn’t possibly be. Ratchet wouldn’t come for him. The medic thought Sam was dead. Spark extinguished and body in pieces. Gone back to the pit where freaks and abominations like him belonged. This was obviously a trick of some kind. Or more likely, a delusion. His dying processor’s last hoorah before he punched his ticket and went to that big factory in the sky. Or the other direction and into the fiery junkyard, spot saved next to Megatron.

Not-Ratchet moved back into Sam’s line of sight then, and his hand approached once more, going in before the youngling could even think of jerking away. Sam thought that he heard his name called then, but he didn’t respond as the mech before him fiddled with something on his chest and at an angle where the minibot couldn’t see. Not-Ratchet kept that up for a few minutes, and Sam actually began to feel a bit better. Pain-free. Like someone was turning off his receptors. Something that a medic would do.

But that was silly. This couldn’t be Ratchet, right? He couldn’t be here, could he?

None of this made any sense. Not that hallucinations were supposed to or anything.

Somewhere in the time spent considering this point, Maybe-Ratchet opened his chestplate fully and began to inspect the inside. Sam could feel him working around, sealing fuel lines if he had to guess. It was definitely an odd sensation, not painful since he couldn’t feel that at the moment but still decidedly bizarre. Rather unlike when he was twelve and the dentist had to numb his mouth before pulling out his very last baby tooth. He hadn’t been able to feel that at all. Here, he could feel perfectly well; it just didn’t hurt anymore.

Truth be told, it almost tickled really. Made him squirm on the table and screw his face up. Let out a little chuckle that only earned his hand a fierce squeeze from Jazz. Who was still holding on apparently. And how could the youngling have ever forgotten that he was? Not very nice of him, was it? Very unfriendly and unfriend-like. It wasn’t all that good to forget his friends now, was it? Very bad form. Something that a ‘Con would do, and Sam definitely wasn’t one of those. His optics were the wrong color, and he didn’t really like the way their symbol looked. Very angular and diabolic, which suited them he supposed. It rather resembled the face of a Velociraptor. Or what Sam assumed it would look like since he’d never actually seen one. They’d been dead long before he was born and… and…

What was he thinking about again?

Oh, right. Poor Jazz, who he’d forgotten again. A shame that was really. The bot probably thought Sam had lost his mind. Giggling like a loon as Ratchet – or was he still only Maybe-Ratchet – dug around inside him and tried to keep him from leaking like sieve. Which would be unfortunate. The leaking part that was. It was rather unsanitary. And would be a horrible mess when they brought his body back to the base. They’d be better off just dumping him by the side of the road, but the humans might not like that too much. He wouldn’t biodegrade, after all. And that would almost certainly be littering.

The thought of the Autobots being ticketed for that coupled with the mental image of a human cop staring at his body in complete confusion was almost enough to make him chuckle a third time. Which he promptly did anyway as Almost-Certainly-Ratchet moved his hand in his chest and tweaked something that definitely didn’t like to be tweaked.

“Sam?” Jazz questioned beside him and leaned down to look at him closer. “Ya alright there?”

The youngling barely contained another laugh as something else was manipulated inside him. And he distinctly heard another person in the background, familiar but unable to place as Sam squirmed away.

“Sam?” Jazz prompted again.

“Tickles,” the youngling managed to say with a distinct staticky twinge to his voice.

Above him, the medic abruptly froze. Ratchet – and it had to be Ratchet since only he ever made that particular sound – just gaped at him.

“It tickles?” he repeated in a tone that he seemed to have perfected. The one he used when the twins or Prowl were being particularly thickheaded. “It shouldn’t feel like anything. You shouldn’t feel this at all.”

Ratchet turned to bark something over his shoulder at someone Sam couldn’t see since his optics just didn’t move that way. Nor were they positioned anywhere other than his face. Though it would be neat if they were. He’d always wondered if it would be possible for a bot to have them in the back of his head or something like that. He bet that they could. Ratchet might do it for him if he asked really nicely. If not, First Aid would do it for him. Aid liked him and was kind like that. And Sam idly wondered where the other medic was. He hoped that he was feeling better now; he’d been awfully upset in that dream Sam’d had awhile ago.

“I’m offlining you,” Ratchet said abruptly.

Which wasn’t very nice. Sam had only just found them. Or they had only just found him. And it did get really lonely when it was just him in his head. Besides, it was all dark in there. Gloomy and not at all pleasant, and Soundwave did have this nasty habit of just popping up every time he onlined nowadays. Sam didn’t particularly care to see him any time soon, and he told as much to Ratchet. Who just looked at him blankly with optics that were far too bright and shiny and resembled Optimus’ quite a bit then.

Sam told him that, too. Which made Jazz give an almost pained snort beside him. But it was still a pleasant sound since Jazz did have a nice laugh. Very real and sparkfelt. Like he never had to pretend to be happy. He even whispered a soft and kind of strangled thanks when Sam mentioned that. But he stilled afterwards just peering at the youngling with an unreadable expression. One that became even more unfathomable with each passing second.

“Lil buddy, are ya--”

Crazy? Insane? Sam could think of a few other descriptive words that could go there. But most of them weren’t very nice. And his mother had said that if he didn’t have anything nice to say, he shouldn’t say anything at all. Which was probably why she wasn’t speaking to him anymore. It was hard to find good things to say about him now that he was an abnormal freak who wasn’t human but wasn’t a proper bot either. Flawed and weak. An aberration. Yeah, Buzzsaw had been most emphatic about that last part.

“--feelin’ alright?” Jazz finished but then promptly shook his head as though he’d just asked a ridiculously retarded question.

Which didn’t make sense. Sam thought it was a particularly good question. Very direct and to the point.

If Sam could have, he would’ve blinked. “Yeah,” he said in that still staticky voice. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re here now.”

Ratchet made a choked noise above him. Something that almost resembled a sob were it coming from anyone else. But why would Ratchet be crying? One would think he’d be happy that Sam was still alive and not dead like they’d all thought. And really, he needed to talk to them about their negativity. Couldn’t they give a guy a break? He’d only been gone like fifty thousand bazillion trillion days. That was hardly anything for immortal robots from outer space. They should really be more patient.

“Yeah,” Jazz replied, effectively cutting into his thoughts. He rubbed his thumb across the back of Sam’s hand and further cemented the youngling in current events. “We’re here now. We’re all here. Sorry it took us s’long.”

Sam couldn’t understand why he didn’t seem more pleased. Why he’d even said that at all. But his train of thought was abruptly derailed at the frenzied roar of footsteps tromping their way. Ones that sounded a lot like herd of mechs or a swarm of minibots fleeing from Sunstreaker.

“Sam! Sam!” somebody called out then, drawing closer and closer. “Sam!” Their – _his_ – tone was loud and bright and so full of hope that he nearly cringed from its exuberance.

Yet, that was only followed by the sound of someone else stopping him short, a bang of metal catching metal. And a heated whisper then that the youngling still heard.

“Stay back. Ratchet needs room to work.”

“But it’s Sam! I need to see him. Sam!”

The youngling swiveled his head and leaned it to the side to peer around Jazz. Who was nice enough to take a step to the side in just enough time for Sam to see two yellowish bots and a red one go down in a tangle of limbs. He puzzled at that, trying to figure out exactly what he was seeing. Watching as the red mech and a yellow bot – this one a nearly golden color – wrestled the third to the floor and promptly sat on him. He was smaller than the other two and at a decided disadvantage, but that didn’t keep him from wiggling around. Blue optics staring straight at Sam. Like he knew him or something…

Oh, that was Bee! And wasn’t that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker on top of him? What on earth were they doing? This wasn’t the best time to be fooling around. Didn’t they know that there were ‘Cons around? Or there had been earlier at any rate. Maybe they’d all left now. Which would explain why Soundwave hadn’t stopped by for a chat yet. But then, he wasn’t really one for company. Very stoic and silent. Like Prowl but not nearly as friendly about it.

“Get off!” Bee yelled as he struggled on the floor. “Sam!”

He stretched out a hand, as though hoping he could reach the youngling. But he abruptly stilled as another red and white mech came into view and did something odd to the back of his neck. The fight left him like a light switch suddenly turned off, and his optics dimmed as he went offline.

Huh. Sam really needed to learn that trick. It looked useful, and it was kind of funny. Made him giggle again and everything.

“Why is he laughing?” someone he couldn’t see asked. But he sounded nice. Voice rich and smooth like the best sort of chocolate.

Primus, Sam really wanted some now. Maybe one of the bots he couldn’t see had some on them, and now that he thought about it, why were there so many of them there? They must have shown up when he wasn’t looking. Either that or they were having a reunion of some sort. Why else would they be here? Unless Soundwave had invited them or something, but he just didn’t seem the type. He hadn’t even brought Prowl, had just left him in the dirt like a piece of black and white trash. They should really talk to him about his littering problem.

“Apparently, it tickles,” somebody else replied.

And hey, speak of the Unmaker, was that Prowl? It sounded like Mirage was with him, too. Sam really should go say hello. He hadn’t seen either of them in forever. Of course, he’d seen Prowl a bit more recently than the racecar, but Prowl had been occupied at the time. What with being knocked out cold on the desert floor and all. But he seemed to be doing much better now.

“I see.”

But Sam could tell that Mirage really didn’t. He still couldn’t see either of them, but he could hear both well enough now that Bee wasn’t shrieking at him. Such an odd thing that was. Why would Bee scream? Maybe he’d missed Sam or something, but then, he had been gone for awhile.

“Where are the others?” Prowl asked in an undertone that was still very clear.

“Hot Spot and Red Alert have set up a perimeter,” Mirage responded in much the same fashion, “but they are very eager to know how he is. I’m just not certain what to say.”

Prowl didn’t seem to have an answer for that. “Have we made contact with the base?” the lieutenant questioned instead.

“Yeah. Skyfire said that he can be here in less than a half joor,” Sideswipe inserted as he picked himself off the floor, still in Sam’s line of sight. “I don’t think we’ll be going much of anywhere until then.”

Oh, why not? Did they just like it that much here? The décor certainly left something to be desired. Soundwave was more into function over form. He didn’t seem the type for frivolities.

Sunstreaker made a shrugging motion next to him. “Probably not. But there could still be some ‘Cons around.”

“Look through the rest of the base then,” Prowl suggested from somewhere near them, probably to their left since that was the way they’d turned.

Why was he just standing there? Didn’t he want to come greet Sam? That wasn’t very friendly. Prowl normally liked to talk to him. Sometimes.

“Well… okay,” Sunny agreed far too easily and completely unlike himself. He was generally a bit more belligerent about stuff like this. Maybe he just felt weird being in a place that Soundwave had made. It wasn’t very pretty, after all. Sunstreaker liked when things were beautiful.

“If you want,” Sideswipe added, and his optics drifted then to Sam.

Who tried to smile, but his face didn’t seem up to the task. A pity that was. The twins exchanged an odd look then before glancing at Sam again. Sideswipe gave him a little smile in return and waved when they noticed he was still watching. The youngling could only turn his head at them, unable to do much else. The twins looked at each other once more and then edged for the door, glancing at him a last time before slipping from his field of vision. In their place, Prowl appeared, but he twitched as soon as he noticed Sam looking at him and immediately stepped back into the shadows. Moving further away until the youngling couldn’t even see the gleam of his optics anymore.

How strange. Or maybe Prowl just didn’t want to look to him at the moment. Not that Sam could blame him. He figured that he looked rather rough currently with chunks and parts missing from his body and scratches all over the place. It probably wasn’t a pretty sight, and Prowl seemed to like pretty things. Just like Sunstreaker! Maybe that was why they got along so well. Sam was happy that he’d finally figured that out.

“Sam?”

A voice drew at his attention then. It was a familiar one, young but hopeful. Gentle like water lapping over him in the bath. A warm blanket wrapped around his shoulders on a cold day. Soft and easy. Nice.

“Hey, Aid,” the minibot responded back, proud that he had recognized this one without really having to think about it.

First Aid came into view then, filling in the space between Ratchet and Jazz. He seemed tired, worn and weary. However, his optics were brilliant, blue and gleaming. And his fingers were infinitely tender when he moved to cup Sam’s chin. Lifting it towards the light to get a better look.

“Oh, Sam… What did they do to you?” he questioned in a murmur.

The youngling felt fingertips trailing the gouges in his metal face. Ghosting over the harsh lines and sheered places with an impossible sense of care. Concern was in Aid’s every movement. His every word.

“They hurt you,” the older mech continued softly. “How could they hurt _you_?”

He kept moving steadily upwards, and Sam had the sudden and unexpected urge to squirm. It wasn’t a bad sensation, not at all, but it did bring to mind other things that were best not remembered. Agony and screaming and the way Soundwave had just watched as his symbiotes worked. As the youngling before him writhed and shrieked and begged for them to stop.

His spark went cold at just the recollection. Puttering in a way that made Ratchet pause in his work and hastily glance up. That had Jazz squeezing his hand tighter and First Aid instantly freezing in place.

“Sam?” the younger of the two medics prompted.

The youngling belatedly realized that he’d been asked a question. “Yeah?”

But it came out fuzzy and barely more than a whisper, and until that second, Sam hadn’t realized just how trashed his vocalizer really was, hazy and buzzing. Must be all that screaming he’d done lately. Ravage liked the way he sounded apparently. Though Sam couldn’t fathom why.

“What did they do to your optic?” Aid repeated and traced around the edge.

Sam jerked his head back sharply, and he fought the urge to move his entire body to the side just to get away. Jazz’s hand to his shoulder was probably the only thing that kept him in place as it was.

“Ravage.” He gave a weak shrug. “You know how cats like shiny things.”

But it came out strained. Forced. Pained.

Sam felt his train of thought, winding and jumping all over the place, stutter to a complete halt. He sat in a blank haze for a moment. Looking from Jazz to First Aid to Ratchet. Silver to white to white and red. And back. Just like he remembered. Just like they were. They were real. They were really here.

Reality abruptly smacked him in the face with all the force of Megatron through Mission City’s architecture. Horrible and in picture perfect clarity. And like the sun peeking out from beneath the clouds he suddenly came back to himself, and the pervading sense of warmth that had filled him from the time he first saw Jazz faded away to nothingness. Ebbed from his body to pool somewhere near the floor. The bubble of foggy disjointedness in his thoughts burst, and everything – all the pain and terror and desperation – came crashing back. The void where his sanity had once been was filled with an all-encompassing sensation of wrongness. The feeling that he shouldn’t be here. That something was fatally and irrevocably faulty.

Sam surged up from the table with enough force to dislodge Ratchet. His hand flew from Jazz’s grasp and blindly pushed at Aid as he attempted to move Sam back down. His feet were poised to go over the edge just as the lieutenant caught him, effectively keeping him pinned without even trying at all.

“Hey, hey! Easy, my man,” Jazz attempted to soothe him. “Take it easy. It’s gonna be alright. Just lay back. Just chill.”

He couldn’t chill. He couldn’t think. Sam could only remember. Could only clutch at his own head as though trying to pull the images from his mind as they rocketed through. A jumble of perceptions and recollections and _Primus please let them just be nightmares_.

The symbiotes’ laughter. The sound of Soundwave’s voice, cold and indifferent to his suffering. The way his body felt as his metallic skin was pulled back bit by bit. The sharp pain as his left optic cracked and shattered. The taste of his own energon in his mouth and not able to recall how it got there.

“It’s alright, Sam,” he heard First Aid telling him. “It’s alright. We’re here now.”

And the youngling felt someone gently but forcefully prying his fingers free. He could only stare at them wordlessly, unable to comprehend how they’d come to be even more scratched in the last few seconds or why they were now coated with energon.

“Easy,” Jazz added, slipping up and onto the table next to him. “Relax. Just relax.” His arms drew around either side of Sam and pulled him forward. “Don’t fight us.”

Sam wanted to shout that he wasn’t fighting, but he just couldn’t find the energy. And Jazz’s touch was warm on his back, soothing and calming. Making him feel safe and secure and just a little bit less crazy. Allowing the hard knot in his chest where his spark should be to ease. The second set of hands only furthered the feeling, touch deft and circular. Working at all the hard and stiff spots. Forcing him to loosen up and let the tension bleed from his frame. Without his consent his head fell forward until it rested in the junction between Jazz’s neck and shoulder.

“Yeah. Like that,” Jazz murmured into his audio. “Just relax. Let us help ya. It’s okay ta be hurt, but we’ll get through this.”

Had Sam be able to, he would’ve been sobbing. He knew that he would have. Knew the tears would be running freely and without his permission and that he wouldn’t care anyway. But as it was, as _he_ was, he couldn’t. The youngling could only shudder and bury his face further into Jazz’s neck. Could only listen as the older bot hummed softly and almost rocked him in place. Just take in the feel off First Aid patting his back like his mother used to before she hated him. The sound of Ratchet as he shifted from one foot to the other and the whispers of the others in the background.

“What’s going on?” someone – it sounded like Sideswipe – asked, and Sam dimly wondered when he had returned from checking out the rest of the base.

“His processor has finally caught up with him,” another – Mirage – responded gently, tone full of nameless and painful things. “I do believe reality is rearing her ugly head.”

Sam heard somebody moving closer, stepping alongside Ratchet.

“He shouldn’t be online for this,” the bot – Prowl – said in an emphatic whisper. But he backed off instantly when he realized the harshness of his own voice in the sudden quiet.

“Indeed, he shouldn’t,” was Ratchet’s subsequent reply, and there was the noise of his footsteps as he inserted himself between Jazz and First Aid. He bent down with seeking hands.

“What’re you doing?” the youngling questioned, shifting feebly in Jazz’s grasp.

That brought Ratchet up short. “I’m just going to help you rest. That’s all.” He paused as though waiting for permission.

Sam wanted to argue, but he was just too tired for it. Too weary to do much but slump and give a half-shrug. Too exhausted to do anything else but watch as Ratchet reached around to the back of his neck. Too busy fighting a losing battle against recollection and recall and remembering _and_ _please just make it stop_.

But then, black was eating away at his consciousness, and Sam knew no more.


	13. Monochrome

For all that he wasn’t human anymore, there were some habits that Sam simply couldn’t break. Such as his tendency to ramble when he was nervous or excited. Or that he often drifted away on daydreams and other flights of fancy. That he still couldn’t walk without tripping over things. That sometimes… a lot of the time, he would roll out of the bed in his sleep.

Only this time, it wasn’t the floor that he hit on the way down.

Sam jolted free from recharge to the half-panicked face of First Aid peering down at him. Or really, what he assumed to be First Aid. It was hard to tell with the way everything seemed to be spinning around. He had only been drunk once in his life, an occasion he’d sworn never to repeat. Especially in the face of Will’s laughter and Mikaela’s utter lack of compassion. But that sensation – the tipsiness, the way the room swayed like a raft in the middle of a hurricane – was exactly what he experienced in that moment. And honestly, it wasn’t at all pleasant.

He could only be glad that he no longer possessed a stomach since its contents would undoubtedly be making their way back up at this point. One of the few benefits of energon, Sam supposed. Once it went down and unless something was catastrophically wrong – like being poisoned or tortured for instance – it usually stayed there. But in spite of that fact, he could and did still feel nauseous. Feel like every single piece of metal and silicon inside of him had suddenly stood up in rebellion. Had said that enough was enough and that they were leaving and would be certain to slam his chassis closed on the way out.

“Sam?” Aid questioned then. Voice having achieved a level of gentleness that made teddy bears seem downright harsh. Which was probably the only thing that kept the vague jabbing in the youngling’s head from turn into a full-fledged stabbing.

And what in the pit had Sam been doing to make himself feel this way? Did someone get the number of the Dinobot that had run him down? He felt as though the twins had decided to play twenty rounds of pass the minibot before being subsequently used by Ironhide for target practice but only after an explosion or three at Wheeljack’s lab and a few hours of training with Red Alert. Only not half that well.

He hurt. Everything from the places where Aid held him to his audios ached. His head rung with every little sound in the background, all but rattling to the hum of First Aid’s spark, which he could somehow hear. He was hyperaware of the medic’s fingers as they shifted on his not-skin. Each touch like a blazing fire across his surface. And his optics were almost literally flooded with light, bright like the sun gone nova. Shapes and colors that swirled together as the room spun in a wide arc. One bleeding into the next but still somehow separate and distinct. Not even offlining his optics helped, the image burned into his mind and refusing to be erased.

“Sam?” First Aid asked again, tone even softer than before, and the hands holding him were softer still. Impossibly tender and delicate as he was put back on his berth. “Can you hear me?”

The minibot was almost scared to groan in response. Afraid that his insides really would use the opportunity to make their grand escape. But he couldn’t keep in the whimper he made as a finger stroked down his back. It was meant to be soothing but only felt as though Aid had decided to plaster himself in sandpaper. That had been dipped in acid and coated with razors. And then heated to boiling.

First Aid instantly froze, but he didn’t have a chance to comment as Ratchet finally arrived on the scene, entering the medbay with a hurried clip. Undoubtedly summoned by his apprentice the millisecond he had realized Sam was awake. He strode directly up to the berth the youngling was on and all but shoved Aid away as he started scanning. Sam could do little but repeatedly shutter his optics at him in an approximation of a blink and let out a little groan at the brightness.

Ratchet gave a noise that sounded like a stampede of Dinobots to Sam’s aching audios. But he stopped short of complaining with the unexpected pinch to his neck, the feel of something being manipulated.

And suddenly, his agony started to recede. The thunder in his audios lightened to a dull ringing, and the fire above him became less like staring into the inferno and more like real ceiling lights. The room wasn’t twirling quite so fast anymore, and even the feel of Aid touching him became different. More like a warm, metallic blanket.

“Feeling better?” Ratchet asked several minutes later. Once the universe had really started to right itself.

“Yeah,” Sam said in a partial daze. Mesmerized by the sheer fact that he could think straight. Simply amazing. “Thanks.”

There was a noise then. A dull sort of thunk that didn’t originate from inside the room. And it took Sam a second to puzzle that out before he heard it repeat. The sound of someone trying to open the medbay door only to find it sealed.

Above him, Ratchet just sighed. “Bee again,” he muttered knowingly, but Sam with his apparently super-duper hearing still heard him. “Must’ve followed me from Prime’s office. I wasn’t exactly subtle with my departure.”

“I’ll deal with him, boss,” First Aid replied in an equally low tone before speaking louder to his patient. “I’ll be right back, Sam. Just hang in there.”

He gave the minibot a stroke goodbye that was soothing and not stifling as he headed for the exit. Sam turned his head just enough to peek around Ratchet’s bulk and discern the sharp but jittery lines of a yellow mech outside the doorway. First Aid deftly intercepted him before he could even think to enter, easily pulling Bee along with his larger and stronger frame. The door shut behind them with an automatic click of the lock and promptly did a little side-to-side dance just because it could. Or maybe only Sam saw that last part because Ratchet didn’t comment.

The youngling groaned at that. “I feel like I’ve been on a three day bender,” Sam murmured hoarsely.

There was a snort. “Not as far as I can tell. You just… didn’t react well to your earlier treatment. We had to knock you out while we fixed you up.”

“How long?” Sam asked, watching with fascination as the area around him magically seemed to right itself. Also, the jab-stab in his head was staring to evaporate away. Which was very nice thank you very much.

“How long what?” the medic returned, fiddling with something Sam couldn’t see.

“How long was I out?” the minibot questioned again. “I don’t even know what day this is. My internal clock thing must be on the fritz.”

Ratchet made an odd noise. “A while,” he deflected and immediately turned away to glance at a monitor.

“How long is a while?” Sam inquired after a moment, glad that the room was finally level and even. Really, all that spinning had to be bad for it.

“I… Do you remember what happened, Sam?” Ratchet asked instead. And there was a very odd cast to his face as he leaned down closer, one that was impossible to read. “Do you remember that you’ve been… _gone_?”

Did Sam remember? What kind of question was that?

Slag yes, he fragging remembered. He’d never forgotten. Not a single second of it. Soundwave and pain and Ravage and screaming and wanting for it to end and begging for them to stop. Pleading. And crying as they asked questions that he didn’t know the answers to. As they hurt him and made him suffer for their own amusement. As Soundwave watched and did nothing to help him. As he felt his own spark sputter. Felt pieces and places inside of him die.

So yeah, he did remember.

“Yes…” Sam admitted slowly. “I remember. Soundwave took me.”

The medic’s hands visibly tightened. “Yes, he did.” Ratchet was quiet for a minute, and it took that long for Sam to realize that he was shaking ever so faintly. “He took you, and we couldn’t find you. We looked everywhere. Turned this half of the continent inside out searching for you. But you weren’t there. You were never where we looked. We almost didn’t find you. It was sheer dumb luck that we did.”

Something a lot like shame settled hot and sharp in Sam’s chest, heavy. Guilt that roared through his insides with furious tidal wave at his words. At the way Ratchet held himself then. Stiff but shaky. Drawn taut. So tense that he seemed ready to snap. Almost overcome by emotion. He’d been afraid, Sam realized. He’d really and truly been afraid. Been terrified. For Sam. For his wellbeing.

And how had Sam repaid him?

By not believing. He’d actually thought they’d given up on him. Honestly felt that they had. But they’d been searching the entire time. Had devoted a lot of time and energy into finding him when he couldn’t even be bothered to wait for them. They’d worried and panicked and were so fragging desperate. And he hadn’t believed in them. He’d given up when they hadn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered then, only to see Ratchet freeze. He unsteadily lifted himself up to be closer to optic-level. “I’m so so--”   
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Ratchet bit out, and suddenly, his metal nose was scant inches from Sam’s own. “Don’t you dare even think that you owe an apology.”

The minibot shook his head helplessly. He needed Ratchet to see, to understand. To know that Sam had been an idiot for not believing. For getting himself into that situation in the first place. He shouldn’t have even been there for Soundwave to take. After all, how many times had they warned him? How often had they told him not to go out alone? Said that Soundwave was dangerous and that his symbiotes would see a youngling as a tempting target? How hard had they trained him to run away from them? To be able to escape?

But Sam hadn’t listened. Had done his best to get out of his lessons. Had blown off Red Alert over a dozen times. Had left the base and gone out into the desert by himself even more often. Brought back in by Optimus or Blaster or Jazz or Prowl.

And Primus! Prowl! He’d let Prowl get hurt. Soundwave could’ve easily killed him, and Sam would’ve been powerless to stop him. Could’ve only watched as the lieutenant – _his friend_ – was deactivated.

Sam had been a moron. Hands down, he’d been careless. And idiotic. Stupid. Reckless. Stupidly reckless. Recklessly stupid.

Even more shame heated his pump. Boiled at his gears and wires. Scorched his servos and ran poisonous and searing claws down his back.

“But you said that you looked!” he retorted with a biting edge. “And I thought… I mean, I didn’t… I thought that you… I didn’t believe.” He firmed his metal lips at his own inability to articulate his inner turmoil. “I didn’t think you would. I thought you’d never come. So I’m sor--”

“Don’t!” Ratchet interrupted again and leaned in even closer, all but slamming his palm on the table to keep his balance. “Just… don’t. You don’t owe us that. If anything, we owe you. For being late. For taking so long. For letting him get away with you in the first place.” His words were harsh and unbelievably bitter. Even as the sudden fingertips stroking down Sam’s face were gentle, tender as they trailed to his optic. “For letting him…”

The mech abruptly pulled back with a shudder. And Ratchet stood at the side of the berth for a long moment, staring out at nothing. Completely unseeing as one hand reflexively clenched.

“Don’t apologize,” he restated quietly. “It’s not and will never be your fault. None of it.” Ratchet turned back to Sam, face unreadable and optics gleaming with so many emotions that the minibot didn’t even know where to start.

“But I went into the desert,” Sam insisted as he sat up all the way. Guilt and self-recrimination twisted his spark. “I was out there when I shouldn’t have been. I--”

“It’s not your fault,” Ratchet repeated.

He reached out to touch Sam on the shoulder, soft and lighter than a feather despite the tightness to his frame. Optics so dark a blue as to be black. But positively gleaming, glittering in a way they never had before. Unfathomable as ten thousand things flashed through at light speed. As he gazed at Sam with something a lot like relief mixed with genuine affection.

Somehow, that burned Sam more than the fire from earlier. Hurt more than the torture of Ravage’s claws. Slicing deep and true. Reaching the parts of him that had been thus far undamaged. And there was a tingling behind his optics. Almost the prickle of tears if he still had the ability to shed them.

“But I let Prowl get hurt, too,” Sam said, choking on the words. “He could’ve died. Soundwave only let him live because it’d distract you guys. And…”

He was silenced by a squeeze.

“ _It. Is. Not. Your. Fault!_ ” Ratchet punctuated each word by tightening his grip until it should’ve been painful but wasn’t. “It isn’t. None of it.”

“But--”

“It’s not your fault,” Ratchet reiterated. “And that won’t change no matter how many times you try to say differently.”

There was a note of absolute finality to Ratchet’s voice. Deep and unbending. Refusing to back down. Sam knew that he couldn’t win this round. Knew that Ratchet was stubborn and unyielding to the extreme. So he let it drop and glanced away. Trying to forget the singe of those optics staring into his own. Just sitting there, doing his best to look at anything but the mech before him. Not even sure how much time had passed by until Ratchet made a noise that was like clearing his throat.

“Well…” he began, searching through the tray to his left. “Now that that is settled, let me finish fixing you up. Just your optic left.”

Sam grasped onto the lifeline like a dying mech. Grateful that Ratchet had thrown it out.

“There’s something wrong with my optic?” he questioned since he honestly couldn’t tell. Seriously. Everything seemed perfectly fine.

Ratchet made a humming sound as he searched out a particular tool. “The insides check out as fine, but the front is cracked. Like I said, it’s the last repair left, but you woke up earlier than expected,” he added with a peculiar hitch.

But it was forgotten as he turned back around with strange tool in hand. Like a cross between tweezers and a small jackhammer. And honestly, were did Ratchet get this stuff? Did everything have to look like his toolbox was a mating ground or daycare for mutant hybrids?

Sam kept that thought to himself and offlined his supposedly damaged optic before Ratchet could even ask. Which apparent pleased the medic since he absentmindedly patted Sam on the cheek as he leaned in. He poked around a bit before lifting something from the minibot’s face, taking a minute before leaning down to pop something else back into place.

“There,” Ratchet murmured, pulling back to inspect his work. “That should do it. Glance around and tell me what you see.”

The youngling did as instructed. But really, it all looked the same.

“It’s… better?” he hazarded a halfhearted guess. “Thanks.”

Ratchet hummed. “There shouldn’t be too much of a change. At least, to you.” He leaned down again to peer at Sam’s face. “Now, the color, however. It will--”

He abruptly jumped back as if he’d been bitten. Dropping his tool on the floor with a clatter. And staring at Sam like he’d suddenly grown another head.

“What? What is it?” Sam half-demanded. He felt a flicker of panic.

Ratchet shook his head and firmly snapped his mouth parts shut. “Er… Nothing. Nothing at all.” He shifted uneasily and glanced away. “I… shocked myself.”

Sam just gazed at him in disbelief. Since when did Ratchet shock himself during a treatment? And could optics even do that?

He was about to call Ratchet on it too when Jazz chose that moment to saunter into the medbay. The medic shot him a cold glare as he walked through like he owned the place. But Jazz didn’t even hesitate.

“What in the pit are you doing here?” he all but growled. “I said no visitors. Besides, that door is set to lock automatically,” Ratchet gruffly added as Jazz sidled up to the much taller mech.

“Is it now?” Jazz returned with an easy smile and completely ignoring the opening part of that statement. “I didn’t notice.” His attention flickered to Sam then, and he started before his metal lips pulled into a full-on grin. Jazz instantly stepped closer and reached for the closest hand available. “Hey! You’re finally awake, lil buddy! I’d hoped ya would be with Ratchet racin’ out of Prime’s office like his aft was on fire.”

Sam couldn’t help the ways his own mouth quirked. “Hey, Jazz.”

“Hey yourself,” Jazz returned with an affectionate press of fingers. “Feelin’ better now? You’ve been pretty out of it.” He carefully studied Sam from head to foot, as though searching for a place that Ratchet had missed.

The medic huffed and stared straight up, obviously wishing he could roll his optics. But he didn’t tell Jazz to leave either despite his earlier words. Actually, he seemed relieved. As though glad for the interruption.

“How long was I out?” Sam inquired then, swinging his legs over the edge as Jazz climbed up beside him. Not once letting the younger bot slip from his grasp.

“Oh… awhile. Not that it matters now,” Jazz deflected. “It’s just good ta see ya up and about. Any idea when the doc here is lettin’ ya go?”

Sam, who hadn’t even considered that, looked at Ratchet. Who crossed his arms over his chest and gave the lieutenant a defiant glower. Jazz didn’t even stop smiling.

“Oh, he’s not going anywhere,” the medic was quick to inform him. “So go ahead and forget whatever you’ve got planned. He’s only just woken up, and you’re already trying to rush him out of here.”

Jazz didn’t have a chance to retort as the door chose that moment to slide open again. Blaster stepped inside with a cautious expression but lit up once he noticed Sam and Jazz.

“Hi, guys!” he stated with a grin and made his way over. “How’s it goin’? You’re lookin’ better, Sam.”

The minibot returned his wave, albeit without his high level of enthusiasm. Jazz just gestured him over, completely ignoring the flicker of sheer disbelief on Ratchet’s face.

“How did you get in here?” the medic demanded. “I locked that door!”

Blaster and Jazz ignored him.

“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” Blaster told Sam as he searched around for a seat. Sam’s berth was a bit too crowded and Ratchet was blocking the one next to it.

“I’ve been here,” Sam returned. “Or so I’m told.”

“Yeah but you weren’t exactly… up for it,” the red mech put in diplomatically, looking Sam over.

“Well…” Sam hedged, “I’m all better now.”

That only earned him a sniff from Ratchet. A lifted brow from Jazz. And a very disbelieving head tilt from Blaster. The three of them just stared at him.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “What?”

“Nothing,” Blaster assured. “Nothing.” He searched around again. “So where’s everybody else? I’m surprised that Bumblebee’s not in here, too.” He zeroed in on the edge of a chair peeking out from Ratchet’s office and glanced at the medic.

Ratchet glared.

Blaster wisely and sheepishly backed away. He looked at Jazz, who didn’t even so much as twitch his faceplates before he promptly slid an arm around Sam. The youngling was so surprised that he couldn’t even think to protest as Jazz pulled him into his lap, holding Sam to his chest like Sarah did Annabelle and little Robbie. Blaster took the recently vacated spot on the berth and kept talking like nothing had even happened.

“I coulda sworn that I saw him run this way. That’s how I knew that somethin’ must’ve been up.”

“So did I,” Jazz added after a second, arms loose but still firm around Sam’s middle. “I saw ‘im go runnin’ by after Ratchet.”

The youngling fought not to squirm in his hold. “Er… Aid intercepted Bee before he could come in.”

He shifted very minutely but didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Since really, this was a bit embarrassing. He was an adult for Primus’ sake. Not a sparkling. It was bad enough that Jazz decided to treat him like one. And that Ratchet and Blaster had to see it. Sam hoped that no one else would.

But of course, Primus loved to mock him. The door chose that moment to open. Yet again. And this time, Bluestreak poked in his head. Jazz beamed and motioned for him to come over, while Blaster gave a little wave. Ratchet could only gape.

“How in the pit are you getting in here? This is a medbay. Not a weigh station for the welcome wagon,” the medic all but spluttered.

But again, he was ignored.

Besides, Blue was too busy talking to the others to answer. “Is Sam really awake?” he questioned in a rush. “That’s what Huffer told me. And he heard it from Hound. Who heard it from Smokescreen. Who saw Ratchet run in here. So is he?” He finally seemed to notice Sam held in Jazz’s grip. “Oh! Hey, Sam! You really are awake. How do you feel?” Through his monologue, he had gradually inched closer, now standing directly in front of them. “I hope you’re all better now. We’ve really missed you. Especially Bee. But all the rest of us, too!”

“Er… Hi, Blue,” Sam replied after taking a second to figure that out. “And yeah, I’m awake now.”

“That’s wonderful. Isn’t it wonderful?” he added as he bent down to peer at Sam. “You haven’t said how you feel yet. You’re good, right? Better?”

Blue didn’t even seem to notice the youngling’s choice of seat. Or perhaps he just didn’t think it was all that odd. As if random bots pulled Sam into their laps all the time.

The youngling frowned at that but quickly dropped it when he saw Blue’s door-wings droop “Well… Sure, I am. Why wouldn’t I be? Ratchet here is a miracle worker.” He attempted a smile but knew that it had failed as Jazz tightened his arms. As Blaster rested a hand on his arm and gave a light squeeze.

“You didn’t seem very well when they brought you in,” Blue informed him then. “You were all torn up and leaking everywhere.” His optics were blue and impossibly wide. Sad and so very concerned. “We were just really worried. All of us. And Ratchet wouldn’t let us in, and we couldn’t see you. And you looked so bad. And… And… We were really worried,” he repeated.

Sam could only still at his tone and shift uncomfortably in Jazz’s lap. “I… I’m so--”

“Alright. Enough of that,” Ratchet cut in before he could get the entire sentence out. He obviously didn’t want a repeat of earlier. “I think that we’ve had enough excitement for one day. Enough visitors.” He puffed out his chassis and glared down at them with a superior expression.

Jazz immediately sensed where this was going. “Come on, Doc. We just got here.”

“Please. We just wanna talk,” Blaster inserted. “Nothing too strenuous about that.”

“Yeah,” Jazz went on with a winning grin, “and it’s not like he’s unhappy to see us.” He patted Sam’s side.

Just as Blue was opening his mouth to add in his two cents, Ratchet took a menacing step forward. He shook his finger almost directly in Jazz’s face.

“No! Everybody out,” the medic ordered, free hand reaching for and hefting his favorite wrench. “Out now. Yes, you too, Jazz.” He pointed at the offending bot. “You’ll find some excuse to be back here later anyway. And you can tell the other miscreants out in the hallway that they’re not welcome yet,” he added in a louder voice.

There was a suspicious noise just outside the medbay. Like someone backing away from the door. Sam could only briefly wonder who it was.

Ratchet put a hand on his hip as he turned back to them. “Get out. All of you.”

Blaster very smartly got to his feet, even as Blue was already backing for the door. But Jazz wouldn’t budge, face behind Sam’s shoulder taking on a mulish cast. He stiffened beneath Sam as Ratchet stepped closer, and the youngling could feel a strange and silent conversation passing between them. Could feel Jazz tightening his hold even more and hunkering down so that his chin brushed Sam’s head. Practically vibrating with tension as Ratchet’s frown deepened and the air around them became charged.

But then, Jazz suddenly eased. He straightened and softly took Sam from his lap, placing him back on the berth. He slid to his feet without flourish and saluted the youngling as he joined up with Blaster and Bluestreak.

“Later, Sam,” he tossed out over his shoulder.

“We’ll be back in awhile,” Blaster agreed with a smile.

“Yeah. As soon as the Hatchet calms down.” Jazz ducked Ratchet’s wrench-wielding swing as he scampered for the exit.

Blue was holding the door for him as he glanced at Sam again. “And we’ll be sure to bring Bee with us, too. He’s really missed you, Sam. Well, all of us have. Optimus and Prowl and the twins and Jack and Percy and all of the minibots. Everybody really. But Bee most of all. Oh, we’re going now. Bye-bye.”

They left without further harassment. The last Sam saw of them was Blaster waving goodbye from the hallway.

\-----

The medbay was dark around him. Not completely so but enough that Sam couldn’t get comfortable on his berth. The only illumination was from his own optics and the permanent light in the corner by Ratchet’s office. Even the diagnostics table and computer were on standby, giving nothing but the occasional hum or whirl to let him know that they were still functioning. At least there was some light though; it wasn’t completely dark. Sam wasn’t entirely certain how well he’d handle that. Too much like being back with Soundwave and trapped within his cell in the pitch black with no one but himself for company.

It was quiet, too. Interrupted by the occasional brush of metal on metal from First Aid as he minutely shifted on the adjacent berth, blissfully recharging away in the wee hours before dawn. There was also the subtle thrum of his internal machinery and spark mixed with that of the mostly quiescent equipment around them. The sporadic sound of someone outside walking by. That was it. Nothing else save the noises Sam made himself.

It was actually kind of creepy. Or at least, that’s what Sam thought as he lay there and stared up at the bland ceiling. Dark, quiet, and creepy. Not things he’d normally associate with Ratchet’s lair. But Ratchet wasn’t there are the moment. No, he’d been knocked offline by the combined efforts of Aid, Wheeljack, and Mirage and then carried back to his quarters for some much needed rest. Something he’d apparently not done since before Sam’s retrieval.

It was only by the grace of First Aid that Sam himself hadn’t been put under, too. But sad optics – a look taught by Bluestreak, the undisputed master – worked very well on Aid. Almost too well. Still, it had been enough to convince him that the youngling would be able to rest on his own, and really, Sam fully intended to keep that promise. But recharge was elusive. He just wasn’t tired. Not physically at least. He’d done nothing more strenuous than sit up on his berth for over a week. Ratchet wouldn’t even allow him to stand on the floor yet. He could only gaze longingly at both it and the medbay door. Fantasizing about when he’d finally be able to leave.

The minibot, however, knew that if he even rolled over that First Aid would be up in a flash. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, Sam was very tempted to move if only to have his friend wake up. Which would be kind of pathetic and embarrassing, even if it meant that Sam would have someone to talk to at least. Not to mention the fact that Aid really needed the rest. He’d been all but dosing during the most recent check-up. Which had been only two hours after the one before that.

And really, Ratchet was just being paranoid.

Sam had already spent far too much fragging time in the medbay. He really should have his own personal berth here. Complete with his name on it and everything. He’d practically lived here before his little vacation from sanity. And now, that he was back, Ratchet had all but welded him in. It’d been over a full week since he’d first onlined to Aid’s concerned face, and at first, he’d let them poke, prod, and coddle him as they wished. Had actually been relieved to do so. Now, it was just bothersome and frustrating.

He was fine. _Really_. There wasn’t anything at all wrong with him. Outwardly. The problems he had were things that Ratchet just couldn’t fix. Thoughts of Soundwave and his symbiotes. The urge to purge mixed with the sharp stab of fear. The need to scream and to lash out. To make them leave, to make them stop. Something a lot like hatred, frosty and bitter, curling in his spark. At them. At himself. At Bee for making him this way. At his life. At the universe in general. The all-consuming notion that something was wrong. That he was wrong and would never be alright again.

So yeah, there wasn’t a lot Ratchet could do about that.

Not much Sam could do anything about it either. Confined to his berth and with nothing to serve as a distraction. His recent string of visitors had been rather good for that. Much to his relief and Ratchet’s unending chagrin, he could hardly go five minutes without someone poking their head in the door to see him.

There’d been Optimus, his first official visitor. Or at least, the first that Ratchet had actually allowed in. Then Wheeljack, who’d really been there to run a processor check but had stayed afterwards just to sit with him. Jazz again, sneaking in with Bluestreak when everybody had been busy looking at his scans. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe with Ratchet watching like a hawk the entire time. Blaster, who’d brought some strange Cybertronian game and taught him to play with Mirage’s help. Hound stopping by for a few minutes. Ironhide with Will Lennox, the first human to see him. Then Red Alert and Simmons. Fireflight wandering in. Skyfire. Smokescreen. Cliffjumper and Brawn. Even Grimlock, looking like a dinosaur at a tea party.

And of course Bee. Who was there as often as Ratchet would let him in and would pace the hallway outside when he wouldn’t. Who only left when the twins or Hide physically carried him away.

They’d all come by. All anxious and hopeful and pleased. All of them had been gentle. Tentative. Like Sam would crack and fall apart if they so much as looked at him wrong. Optimus seemingly afraid to even touch him. The twins quieter than he’d ever seen them. Making Sam’s insides squirm with guilt as they grinned and lightly touched his shoulder. All of the bots. Everyone but Prowl, who would’ve only made his guilt turn into full-blown shame. But then, Sam supposed that somebody had to hold down the fort while everyone was distracted with him.

That had all been before his enforced rest period, however. Before they’d carted Ratchet off and Jack had shooed everybody out. They’d all surprisingly complied. Even the twins who couldn’t be counted to obey anyone short of Prowl most days. They were all gone now, leaving Sam on his lonesome with only an asleep First Aid for company in the semi-dark.

But there was a sudden noise in the hallway then, one that let the youngling know that his near solitude was about to end. And he cocked his head to the side as he heard it again, the click of someone unlocking the medbay door. Sam was quick to offline his optics just as he heard the tell-tale sounds of the door opening and someone walking in with a light step. His – Sam was assuming here – first destination was not the minibot, however. Instead, the intruder walked over to First Aid, where he paused for a long moment before moving to Sam’s berth.

“I know that you’re awake, Sam,” the newcomer commented.

And the youngling felt his optics snap on automatically at that voice. At the realization of who exactly this was. Certainly not one of the science geeks.

“Bee!” Sam whisper-shrieked since honestly First Aid could wake at any second and nobody else was supposed to be in here on pain of Ratchet. Even Ironhide feared him, and he wasn’t afraid of anything. With perhaps the exception of the two – soon to be three – youngest Lennoxes.

Bee just gave him an almost smile, reaching forward to stroke a hand down his shoulder. Sam allowed it as he quickly sat up and gestured at the third bot in the room.

“You’re not supposed to be in here. Aid--”

“Will be staying where he is. He won’t be coming out of recharge for quite some time,” Bee assured him with a distinct gleam in his blue optics. He tossed a glance over his shoulder before turning back to Sam, who had only a split second of warning as the older mech eased himself down next to him.

“What are you…” Sam began. But then, he just shook his head.

“I just wanted to see how you were,” his friend said, checking him over carefully. Turning his head this way and that.

“And you couldn’t think of a better time,” the youngling replied, but there was no heat to it. Sam was actually kind of pleased. If only a little bit.

Bee made an amused sound. “Better to approach the dragon’s den while he’s away.”

Sam snorted at that. Ratchet was rather ferocious when it came to his patients.

“I didn’t think you'd be up,” Bee continued with a hint of accusation. “You really shouldn’t be.”

“I’m not tired.” Sam shifted as a hand ran up and down his side. “I’ve done nothing but lay here for the last week.”

“That isn’t entirely true.” The mech was silent for few seconds as he traced a line up from Sam’s chassis to his neck, where a scar courtesy of Ravage had once been. “You’re only just recovering, Sam. We worry for you. I worry for you. I don’t want anything to happen to you again.” His finger slowed as it approached Sam’s optic.

The youngling fought not to flinch away. “It won’t. I’m f--”

“You are _not_ fine, Sam,” Bee inserted with a tap to his cheek. “Not yet. You need to rest.”

Sam shifted next to him. Unable to prevent himself from glancing at the still very much unconscious First Aid and the darkness around them.

“Sleep,” Bee encouraged with a gentle stroke, as if guessing his thoughts. “I won’t leave. I’ll be here the entire time.”

His hand slipped to Sam’s shoulder and gently started to pull him down. The youngling resisted for a minute but eventually allowed himself to be moved. To let Bee settle his head on a yellow leg. Fingers soothed over Sam’s forehead and down to his neck before ghosting to his back.

“Just sleep,” he repeated, trailing his hand up Sam’s metallic skin as he started to hum.

And Sam actually found himself surprisingly lulled by that. By the soft warmth of Bee’s fingers. By the gentle thrum of his spark that echoed in Sam’s audio. His optics switched off of their own accord, and he felt himself relax into the feel of it all. Felt thought and the flicker of unease float free from him. Slowly drifting away. Further and further and further. Just drifting until he was more gone than present. Until there was no consciousness left at all.

He didn’t wake until the next afternoon, and Bee was still there.


	14. Pixelate

Sam made his great escape with a disturbing amount of fanfare. Not only was Bee there, but Jazz and Bluestreak had shown up, too. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe joined them out in the hallway, and by the time Sam made it to the common room, he’d also appropriated Streetwise and Groove. There wasn’t enough space at his table for his entire posse though, which resulted in a scramble for seats. Bee was quick to claim the spot to Sam’s right, and while the twins were busy wrestling with the two Protectobots, Jazz slid into the chair on the other side with a grin and pulled Blue in beside him. That only left the place across the table, which was soon filled by a very smug Blaster. Who proceeded to plop down enough energon for all of them, something he’d had the foresight to get earlier.

Sam just accepted the cube with a dubious expression, trying not to shift at the unwavering looks that were directed his way. He knew that they didn’t mean to stare, that they were only glad to see him up and about. But really, it was more than a bit unnerving to feel the weight of every single optic in the room. He’d had over two weeks of Ratchet’s near constant attention, and that was plenty for him.

But at least, Ratchet had given him the illusion of privacy. Most of the bots around Sam now didn’t even pretend that they weren’t watching. Didn’t even need an excuse to wander over to his table. And it seemed like everyone and their brother came by. Just to chat. To put a hand on his shoulder. To pat him on the head. To visibly see for themselves that he hadn’t keeled over. Yet.

At first, it wasn’t too bad, but it quickly became trying and then progressed beyond annoying to downright bothersome. Really, couldn’t they see that he was just fine from the confines of their own tables?

“They’re just worried about ya,” Jazz commented as though reading his mind.

Which wasn’t hard to do with the frown Sam was giving Trailbreaker. Who quickly withdrew his hand, scratched his helm, and hurried back to the table he was sharing with Hound.

“I know,” Sam muttered. “It’s just a bit… _annoying_.” His fingers clinched around his energon cube as Air Raid and Skydive chose that moment to stop by. The youngling felt one of his optics flicker and the plates around it twitch when Cliffjumper followed them over.

Bee nudged him in the middle, but Sam ignored it. Jazz snickered from his other side. Bluestreak and Blaster laughed outright when he batted away Air Raid, who insisted on leaning on him like some giant jet-shaped drape.

“Enough of that now,” Sam insisted. “I’m fine. Really. You don’t have to hover.” He spoke up then. “Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing at all. Go back to your tables.” He directed his commanding look at everyone in the room.

They all gazed at him a moment longer before finally glancing away. Cliffjumper just shrugged and wandered off, while Skydive seemed rather put out before going over to sit with Silverbolt and Skyfire. Air Raid, however, lingered until Jazz spoke up.

“Come on,” the lieutenant directed. “Give the kid a break.”

Air Raid shrugged. “Eh… Just good to have ya back. You should let us take you flying again sometime. We all know how much you like that.” He snuck in a parting pat to Sam’s head before striding away with a grin when the minibot rounded on him.

Sam slowly turned back around once he was certain the Aerialbot was gone, sighing in relief as he watched him head for the door. A near-glare was fixed on his face as he saw Air Raid leave, one that wouldn’t be out of place for Ratchet. And really, he’d been spending far too much time in the medbay to even realize that.

His optics stayed on the doorway after Air Raid left, just in case he decided to double-back. But he didn’t after a few minutes, and the youngling was on the verge of finally relaxing when a small form decided to walk into the common room.

And Sam felt his insides freeze. His pump stuttered, and the coolant and energon inside of him became the consistency of ice. A great chill wind seemed to come from both everywhere and nowhere, and he would’ve shivered had he still been human.

But reality asserted itself seconds later. And that incessant jab in the back of his processor eased as he realized that no this wasn’t who he’d thought it was. It was just Steeljaw, one of Blaster’s many companions. Only he looked far too much like another symbiote for Sam’s comfort. Like someone he remembered all too vividly in his nightmares. Red optics superimposing over blue and paint shifting to a much more sinister shade even as he watched.

His fingers clenched into a fist without his permission. Sam’s only saving grace was that it happened beneath the table where no one could see. And the fact that Steeljaw didn’t linger. He had a very short exchange with Blaster before stepping back and casting a glance around. His optics rested on Sam for a minute, and he smiled and waved. Sam, however, didn’t trust himself to do more than nod in return. Watching tensely as the little bot left and only easing when he disappeared out the door once more.

The subsequent hand that landed on his shoulder nearly made him jump out of his metallic skin. Sam jerked his head around to stare at Jazz, pumping thudding so loudly in his chest that he was surprised no one else heard it.

“Easy there, man,” Jazz commented, studying him for a moment before he leaned in. “Ya okay? Look like ya just seen a ghost.”

The comment was all too accurate. Striking deep and true. Right to the core. And from the cast in Jazz’s face, he knew it, too.

But the youngling was saved from any further comment by the timely intervention of a rather unlikely individual. And it was probably the only time in his entire life that Sam Witwicky would be glad to see Smokescreen arrive on the scene.

“I’ve been looking for you,” the Audi said by way of introduction. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

Sam was equal parts relieved and horrified. Relieved that Jazz’s attention was diverted. Horrified that they were making him go see a shrink. He had a date with Smokescreen. And by date, he meant that the two of them would spend the next three hours making small talk. Never once mentioning the giant purple turbofox in the room. Not at all straying to the things that Smokescreen wanted to hear but Sam would never say.

Yeah, he had problems. But so what? Who among the Autobots didn’t?

Red Alert was overly paranoid. Wheeljack was just plain masochistic. Ratchet was possibly sadistic. Silverbolt was a jet afraid of heights. Tracks was a narcissist. Sunstreaker was that and maybe even a sociopath. There weren’t even enough words to describe what was wrong with Sideswipe. And that didn’t even begin to cover the others. He was surprised that Smokescreen even had time for him in his busy schedule.

Sam sighed. “No, I didn’t forget. I was just… getting some energon,” he added smoothly, shaking his still half-full cube. He downed the rest quickly if only not to taste it and snuck a glance at his tablemates.

Blue was humming to himself, while Bee looked on with a hint of unhappiness. Blaster seemed like he wasn’t certain how to feel. And Jazz was watching him with an all too knowing expression

And that decided it.

“Ready?” he asked Smokescreen.

The Audi inclined his head. “That’s the spirit.”

Smokescreen clapped him on the arm and smiled at him. An almost devious smile that was trying its damnedest to be sincere and encouraging. It rather made him look like a Dinobot when there were Decepticons to slag or Red Alert when he had absolute proof that the most recent prank was indeed Sides’ fault.

Sam glanced at Jazz out of the corner of his optic and swiftly slid from his chair. Resigned to his fate as he followed after Smokescreen but feeling the full weight of Jazz’s stare on his back as he moved across the room and through the doorway. And he could feel that gaze burning a hole in his back long after he’d walked away.

\-----

These days, Sam barely had a moment to himself.

Blue wanted to watch a movie. Jazz had some new music. The twins held a Halo tournament. Jack and Skyfire demonstrated their latest invention. Optimus proved that his office door was always open. Ratchet needed him for another exam. Brawn and Cliffjumper recounted tales of Cybertron. Hound showed his newest nature holos. Smokescreen just wanted to talk. Mirage enticed him into a game – quatro, quattra, whatever it was called.

And Bee simply shadowed him everywhere. A ubiquitous presence at all hours.

Prowl, however, was noticeable by his absence. Where before he’d commed in at least a two or three times a day for this task or that one, he hadn’t so much as talked to Sam once since he’d been back. The youngling had barely even caught a glimpse of him. Well, more like a peek of his door-wings as he went around a corner at the end of the hallway. Given the size of their base, Sam should at least see him in passing, but he hadn’t even had that. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Prowl was purposely avoiding him.

His insides twisted at that thought. It was entirely possible that Prowl had simply been busy, but Sam had a feeling that wasn’t the case. Knowing the lieutenant, he probably had some strange guilt-complex going on, thought that Sam blamed him or something along those lines. Which Sam didn’t. At all. And he would tell Prowl that. If he could find him. Or if the mech decided to answer his comm. Maybe he was just ignoring Sam’s calls though. Nobody else seemed to have a problem getting hold of him, as evidenced by Jazz’s ongoing harassment.

It was eerie how Prowl seemed to be everywhere Sam wasn’t, which was a direct contrast to the other bots who were always where Sam _was_. His room. The medbay. The washracks, though thankfully never in the same stall. The only ones besides Prowl who didn’t hover were Blaster’s symbiotes, and Sam wasn’t dumb enough to think that was a coincidence. He didn’t know if he should be grateful or annoyed by the unspoken intrusion and supposition into his mental state. A part of him was relieved but another, larger part was also saddened. No symbiotes also meant no Blaster. Or at least, a lot less time with him than before. It wasn’t fair to deny Steeljaw, Rewind, and all the rest their partner like that. To make them go away because Sam wanted to hang out. To take out his fears and frustrations on them.

And if Sam started finding excuses to be elsewhere when Blaster wanted to do something, nobody commented on the matter. It wasn’t hard after all; there were a lot of bots vying for his attention. All too eager to turn those excuses into reality. Following him around like Annabelle Lennox toddling after Grimlock. Always knowing where he was at any given second. Like they had implanted a tracker beneath his metal skin. He was almost convinced that they had a camera in his room as well, except for the fact that he didn’t even want to consider about how obscenely creepy it would be. That and Optimus would never allow it. And well, Aid probably wouldn’t like it much either since he lived there, too.

It was like they’d all developed Sideswipe’s Psychic Sam Sense ™, the same one he still used to track the minibot everywhere to spout off idiotic name suggestions. Or maybe they were just borrowing Bee’s own version of it. Which seemed to have become even more finely tuned over the last few weeks. Now capable of finding him behind closed doors and concealed by all manner of tables, crates, and machinery. As if he had some special internalized compass that always and unerringly pointed to Sam.

The only time the youngling got away from him was when Bee was on shift or in recharge. The latter of which he was supposedly doing at that very moment.

Sam though had his doubts. And he kept casting suspicious glances down the hallways as he walked to his assignment for the day. He was supposed to be helping Swoop organize a supply closet, and while it wasn’t exactly the most mentally fulfilling task, at least it got him away from everyone else. Swoop, soft-voiced and even-tempered, Sam could stand. Better yet, he knew the value of silence. Of quiet companionship. Of not asking all those pesky questions.

The minibot didn’t see him when he arrived at his destination, the end of a short corridor not too far from Beachcomber’s lab and just down from a room that Sam knew was filled with all sorts of top secret things but had never actually been in. It was a rather disused area outside of the science geeks and the twins, who were always looking for a good place to hide from authority. Which made it the perfect spot to store stuff away from the general hustle and bustle of the base. Sam had misgivings about the state he would find the closet. Probably filled to the brim with all sorts of junk. Odd parts. Broken equipment that Wheeljack had forgotten about. Extra spares for things they already had an abundance of anyway.

He waited a minute to see if Swoop was coming. But when he didn’t show, the youngling figured he’d either been detained – most likely by his brothers – or was already inside. Sam shrugged and reached up to palm the door release. It opened soundlessly. He glanced inside, did a double-take, and abruptly closed the door. All within the span of three seconds. Sam quickly turned and headed back the way he’d come, trying to scrub that image from his processor. It stubbornly refused to budge.

First Aid glanced up as he walked inside. “Sam? Did you forget something? I thought you were supposed to be helping Swoop.”

“Yeah… well…” Sam shifted uneasily. He put a hand on the back of his head and would’ve pulled at his hair had he any. “Well, your brother’s… _occupying_ it at the moment.”

“What…” Aid started to ask before flickering his optics. “Oh. I see. Which brother?”

“Blades,” Sam replied with an unhappy face. He had a sudden desire for the floor to open up and swallow him whole just to avoid another mental replay.

The medic lifted a metallic brow and gave him a look of complete comprehension. “I take it that Slingshot was with him then.”

How Aid managed to say that so casually was a mystery. But then, he’d probably gotten his own optic-full many a time.

“You could say that,” the youngling admitted, desperately attempting not to recall what he’d just seen. Since honestly, he had never so much as entertained the vaguest notion about either one of them. And he now had _that_ permanent etched into his brain.

Sam grimaced and mentally scoured harder, but it was just as vivid as before. Flashes of white and grey paint mixed with various shades of red as they rubbed together. Sounds – groans – that he had never, _ever_ wanted to hear. He’d even noticed that Slingshot still had those butterfly stickers on his fuselage and that apparently Blades – and his mouth – _really_ liked them.

“I can only imagine what they were doing,” Aid replied, amused voice cutting through his traumatizing memories. Undoubtedly, he was smiling behind his facemask.

Sam put a hand over his optics, as if that could block at the mental image. “I’m trying not to. But really, when did that happen? I thought they hated each other. I seem to recall them pummeling one another numerous times.”

And honestly, the last time he’d checked, Blades and Slingshot couldn’t go three days without one of them punching the other. They couldn’t even hold a civil conversation or sit at the same table in the rec room without insults flying. Much less do something as pleasant as… well…

“Hate isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe that, Sam,” Aid commented with a verbal grin before turning back to the screen in front of him. “And they’ve only been together for a few orns. When they started doing patrols with each other.”

“Since when do those two go on patrols together?” the youngling wondered aloud as he walked over to stand next to the older mech.

First Aid was nonplussed, still reading the chart in front of him. “Since everyone was out searching for--”

He abruptly cut off. Back stiffening and optics impossibly wide, he very slowly turned to look at Sam again.

Oh.

Sam didn’t even have to ask further; he knew what First Aid meant. They’d gotten together while looking for him. Which explained why he hadn’t gotten the memo. It would’ve been nice if someone had given him the heads-up though. Jazz and Sideswipe were falling behind in the gossip department it seemed, and Sam did have to wonder what else he’d missed. What else would blindside him. Evidence that even as they worried about him and his whereabouts, that even as Soundwave had hurt him, life had indeed gone on.

Left him behind.

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Aid sounded genuinely contrite as he reached for his friend. “I didn’t think.”

The minibot was quick to wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Bound to happen.” He ignored the sharp stab in his chest where his spark was located. “At least it was with you and not one of the others.”

“Sam--”

“It’s fine.”

Sam stepped back before Aid could touch him. He nearly cringed at the look directed his way, compassion wrapped up in sorrow with a smidgen of guilt thrown in for good measure. Making the medic resemble a kicked puppy or Bluestreak when someone was mean to him. Optics all wide and blue, almost liquidy and tear-filled were giant metal robots capable of such things.

The minibot nearly cringed. “So… er… Have anything else you need me to do?”

Thankfully, Aid wasn’t put off by the non sequitur. His face adopted a slightly more professional air as he turned back to the screen, but his optics were still watching Sam.

“Not at the moment, but you can help me look through this charts.” He hesitated before adding, “If you feel up to it.”

“I’m fine,” Sam insisted. “Don’t worry about it.”

But the medic clearly didn’t believe him. As if Sam regularly made a habit of lying to him. Which… Well, okay. So he wasn’t exactly the most truthful of people lately. But they shouldn’t ask questions when they really didn’t need to know the answers and probably wouldn’t like hearing the truth either. Seriously, did they really want to listen to him go on about just how horrible Soundwave had been? Or that he’d thought that they had given up on him?

Way to lay on the guilt with those.

First Aid studied him for a minute. “Are you su--”

“I said I’m fine. Just leave it alone,” Sam snapped. Only to promptly seal his mouth shut.

If the mech hadn’t looked like an abandoned and unloved pet before, he certainly did now. And way to go, Sam. Such a fine effort at convincing First Aid of his mental stability.

“I’m sorry,” the youngling amended with complete honesty. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’ve just… been getting that a lot lately. It’s frustrating.”

Aid instantly swept away his startled and hurt expression. “I understand. I know that we can all be a bit overbearing. We just worry about you.” He let out a rush of air and put on a brave face.

“I know,” Sam shrugged and very slowly reached out to touch the medic’s arm. As if willing him to believe the next statement. “You don’t have to. I really am fine. I promise.”

First Aid just looked at him and made a noncommittal sound. They stood in silence for a time before Aid reached down to pat him on the shoulder.

“So this chart,” the medic indicated with a tap at the screen, “I don’t think Ratchet’s taught you how to read them yet. But we can go over that if you like.”

Sam couldn’t help but give a small smile at the change of subject and the apology inherent in that statement. He even allowed Aid’s hand to linger on his back and didn’t step away from it like he normally would’ve done. It was kind of pleasant. Soothing almost. Like being back with his dad when he’d help with the lawn. Almost what he’d imagine having an older sibling would be like if he hadn’t been only child.

Easy. Simple. Nice.

“Yeah,” Sam replied, not even noticing as he leaned into the touch, “I would.”

\-----

His ceiling was boring; it didn’t take long for Sam to decide that. Perhaps only a half hour, which was positively quick on the Cybertronian time scale. It was plain and a grayish color. Not really light or dark but in between. It didn’t have any interesting designs either. No tiles or stray marks or scratches, just a solid metal-like substance that was even and smooth. Maybe he could bribe Bee to bribe Sunstreaker to paint it for him, just as he’d done for Bee’s own room. Or perhaps he should just cut out the middle man and try to figure out what he could use to entice the golden twin to do it without resorting to blackmail.

The walls and the room itself weren’t much better for all that they were a nicer color, a pleasant shade of light green that Aid had chosen on a whim. Just a few shelves with a desk for him – mainly unused – and a larger-scaled one for First Aid nearby. Only Aid’s side of the room really had anything in it. Holos of various places he’d visited and a few scenic sites of Earth mixed in with posters that he’d gotten from the internet. Several shelves full of those datapad thingies with more hidden away in his desk drawers. An assortment of knick-knacks and gizmos he’d collected. Pictures of friends, some still living but most lost forever.

Sam’s half was painfully empty in comparison. Two movie posters Blaster had bought on eBay. A few pads about Cybertronian mechanics and inner parts. A cactus found by Hound out in the desert. A single, framed photo of Mikaela that Sarah Lennox had saved for him. His mom had the majority of his stuff from when he’d still been human, and she’d rather bluntly told Bee exactly what he could do with himself when he tried to retrieve some of it. Not that it actually mattered. Sam couldn’t use most of it anyway. Though he did miss his laptop and Xbox. Several of the things he’d inherited from his dad. Other stuff that he’d saved from his friendship with Miles. Even a few of his grandfather’s antiques.

And now that Sam thought it, his part of the room was really depressing. He had nothing to show for his two decades of life. Not the twenty-some years as a human and not the months he’d been a bot. Not the friendships or the normal, mundane days or the ones fraught with danger and excitement. Not for being one of the first humans to ever see much less meet and befriend an alien. Not for saving the world or hanging out with Army Rangers and giant robots. Not for dying and being reborn.

A big fat wad of nothing.

Sam abruptly sat up and swung his legs over the side of his berth. He slid to the floor and was out the door and wandering down the corridor before he’d even realized that he’d left his room. He passed no one in the hallway, which was good since this was his sleep cycle, and every bot and his brother had apparently memorized his schedule. They’d most certainly scold him for being up and send him straight back to bed, and depending on who found him first, perhaps come join him or stay to make sure he actually recharged. It was only by the grace of Primus himself that Bee wasn’t glued to him at that very moment. Which would undoubtedly end as soon as the yellow mech returned from patrol. It wouldn’t do to leave him alone too long after all. Aid was probably lurking around here somewhere or would be back as soon as he managed to help them find Fireflight, who had wandered off yet again.

And even now, the youngling had no doubt that whoever was in the security room – Red Alert most likely – was watching him on the monitors. Sam only wondered how long it would take them to send someone. He’d almost think it would be Prowl since Prowl never seemed to rest and all but lived in the command center these days unless Jazz – or the twins or Ratchet or Optimus – forced him out. But Prowl was still avoiding him without really avoiding him as Bluestreak called it.

Which meant that they’d send someone else. Whoever happened to be handy. Maybe Sideswipe if he was manning the comm. station. Or Blaster could be there. He’d thought that Aid had mentioned Hot Spot being the officer on duty for this week. Or was it Silverbolt? Sam couldn’t actually say since he didn’t have the opportunity to look at the shift schedule anymore because Prowl wasn’t training him in ops now.

Either way, they’d send someone… Unless it looked like he actually had a destination in mind. Like the rec or common rooms. The human commissary. The command center. Or even the medbay. Loath as he was to go there now that he’d escaped, but at least Ratchet could give him something to make recharge easier.

Sam looked around then to get his bearings. Only to discover that his feet seemed to be taking him to the last one automatically. It was just around the corner and down the hall, and he picked up his pace lest someone find him regardless. However, there wasn’t so much as a glimpse of anyone when he rounded the bend and came up to Ratchet’s domain, pausing for a second before squaring his shoulders and slipping inside. He was greeted to the sight of a surprisingly empty medbay. Not darkened as it would be if completely shut down but still ostensibly unoccupied. Which meant that Ratchet had either left for a moment and would soon be back. Or he was in his office for whatever reason. He’d usually stick his head out and demand an explanation within seconds, but when no was forthcoming, the minibot was rather stumped.

Sam could be surprising quiet in his new form without even actively trying. He’d actually managed to sneak up on Ironhide and Bee a few times. And the former was nothing if not vigilant, and the latter could detect Sam’s black form in the pitch dark without even using sensors. The youngling had never attempted it with anyone else, but Ratchet was apparently susceptible or distracted since he hadn’t noticed the door open or Sam walk in.

He debated using that as an excuse to leave, but then, he’d be back at square one. And really, it couldn’t hurt to stick around.

Sam approached Ratchet’s office like someone needing a tooth pulled would a dentist, warily and certain that some form of pain or torture was certain to follow. The door wasn’t closed, and it wouldn’t be if Ratchet were in there unless he was holding a private meeting. His office was soundproof when it was, and he normally left it open to hear if anyone came in. But Sam was still surprised when he realized that the medic wasn’t alone inside and doubly so when he recognized the sound of Mirage’s voice.

He hesitated then, all but freezing in place. Not wanting to eavesdrop but nearly nauseated at the thought of walking in on another Blades and Slingshot-type lovefest in progress. Once was more than enough for him. And yes, he was trying to forget the three other times he’d caught them since then. Had they no shame? Innocent humans and younglings could be mentally scarred for life just catching a stray glimpse of… _that_.

Arg. Happy thoughts. Kittens. Rainbows. ‘Cons exploding. But not all together because that would be weird.

And maybe he was more tired than he thought. Especially if he started talking to himself again. He wasn’t Percy, after all. And such things were just plain strange in anyone other than mad scientists. And even then.

But anyway… It didn’t seem like Mirage and Ratchet were doing anything more than talking. And Sam gave a sigh of relief at that, poised to announce himself when he finally allowed their conversation to wash over him.

“--excellent work. They look just as they were before. You even managed to match the color,” Mirage commented with obvious admiration.

There was the sound of someone shifting in his seat then. Along with fingers tapping on a solid surface. Quick and very uneasy.

“I didn’t.” Ratchet suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “The color… I didn’t match it.”

Sam had the sudden and sinking sensation that Ratchet… that _they_ were talking about him. And he could hear Mirage sitting up, confusion evident in his movements.

“But I saw him,” he said in response. “I can’t even tell the difference. I would never know he had even been damaged if I hadn’t seen for myself. They are exactly the same shade, Ratchet. Right down to the last molecule.”

“That’s the thing,” the medic returned softly, and Sam automatically leaned in closer. “They weren’t the same when I put it in. I didn’t have crystals anywhere near to that color. Jack and Percy couldn’t match it either. We tried, but there wasn’t anything we could do about it. It’s too unique.”

A pause then. Filled only by the hum of medical machinery in the background.

“I don’t understand,” Mirage finally admitted. “It’s still the same, but you said that you could not match the color.”

There was a question in his voice, but the racecar apparently couldn’t find the proper words for it. And Sam really wished that he could see Mirage’s face. Could see either of them from his shadowed spot by the wall.

“We couldn’t. We didn’t.” Ratchet’s tone was heavy but brittle. “His optic… It changed color after I put it in.”

“ _What?_ ”

A single word. Barely a breath were Mirage human. But Sam still heard him with crystal clear clarity. Even as his pump and spark both settled somewhere near his ankles.

“It changed color after I put it in,” the ambulance repeated with utter slowness. “It turned the proper shade. I didn’t even do anything to it. Sam did it on his own.”

“How is that even possible?” Mirage was stuck between amazement and shock. “We can’t do that. None of us can. Not alter optic color like that. I mean, I have never known anyone who can do more than change their outer armor at will.”

“I don’t know.”

Ratchet was quiet for a moment. A long and excruciating moment that had Sam clenching his hands into fists. Which promptly loosened on the medic’s next sentence.

“That’s not all,” Ratchet confessed. “His inner workings and the other replacement parts… they all changed color to match the originals, too. It wasn’t just his optics. All of them did it. And the fit for them all is so close that even I can’t tell what’s a replacement anymore. And his repair systems, they work a lot faster than they’re supposed to. Far too quickly for someone this young. Nearly as fast as a regular bot. If he keeps this up, they’ll be even quicker than Prime’s when he’s fully mature.”

Dead, stabbed through the spark silence then. Sam couldn’t even hear the medbay in the background anymore. Couldn’t hear the rush of his intakes or the thrum of his own pump. Nothing but the conversation floating from Ratchet’s office and the two bots inside.

“Is it…” Mirage began with hesitation. “Did Soundwave do something to him?”

“No,” Ratchet was quick to rebuke, “I think this is… _normal_ for him. I think that he’s always been able to do this. We just never had cause to see it happen before.”

A noise then. Strange. Almost like Mirage had choked.

“Is… Is this related to his spark?” the racecar questioned. “You said that it was very bright and powerful. Abnormally so.”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Ratchet admitted slowly. “I’ve just… I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’ve heard the stories; we all have. I just never thought there was any truth to them.”

“So he really is like them then? Like the brothers?” Mirage held wonderment in his tone.

The medic let out a rush of air. “He’s the first Allspark-made since them. So I suppose it makes sense.”

“But they’re…” Mirage couldn’t even find the words.

“I know,” Ratchet answered anyway. “I know, and… I can only wonder what other abilities he has. What else he’ll start to show. He’s not even a full vorn old, and even with his human heritage added in, he’s barely more than a sparkling. But some of the things he can do… I just… I don’t know.”

They were quiet then, but there was no need for words. No need to hear the accusation, the recognition of what he was. Of how weird and bizarre and completely _not normal at all_.

No need hear. Sam knew what both of them were thinking. Knew exactly what was racing through their minds as he rapidly but silently backpedaled and bolted. As he fled the medbay, down the hallway, and all the way back to his room. Up on his berth and sitting with his back to the wall. Unable to control the shaking of his limbs. The tremor to his hands as they clutched at his head and he pressed his face to his knees.

Sam knew. In fact, he was thinking much the same thing.

What other secrets was he hiding?


	15. Aspect Ratio

_He screamed. He cried. He begged._

" _No. Please. Stop. I don't know. I don't know anything. Please stop."_

" _But why?" Ravage asked, voice a dark purr. "You scream so nicely."_

_A talon traced up his chest, trailed over the delicate and tender energon lines in his neck and across his cheek. It ghosted up to his optic and around the edge. And very slowly, agonizingly, dug in. At first, just a light pressure, like a feather across his metallic skin. Then harder and deeper. A creak of bending metal and crystal as it strained against the force. Cracking. Breaking. Shattering._

_Only his restraints kept him on the table._

" _Tut, tut. Delicious little minibot," Buzzsaw commented from nearby. Just out of Sam's newly reduced line of sight. "I expected better of you. So very easily damaged. Whatever shall we do, dear brother?"_

_Ravage made a sound that may have been a laugh. "Brother dear, I have an idea."_

_And he screamed again. Louder and louder and…_

He landed on the floor with a dull thud. Processor foggy and lagging behind. It took him several minutes to realize where he was. _His room._ How he had ended up there. _Thrashing in recharge. Again._ That he'd originally been on his berth.

Sam groaned. And cast a glance at First Aid's side of the room, only to see that it was empty. He threw a hand over his optics and allowed his head to thump back onto the floor. Fighting the urge to bang it against the hard surface just to remove the images – flashes full of painpainpain – from his processor.

That was great. Just great. Nightmares again. Flashbacks. Things were just getting better and better, weren't they?

As if he didn't have enough problems. He had to add _this_ – sleep deprivation – on top of his general freakishness. The only reason he was here in the middle of the day and not off doing something semi-useful. Ratchet had made him come back to take a nap. A nap! At his age!

Of course, Ratchet was taking the day off, too. Recuperating in his quarters after spending the last week and a half putting Bluestreak and Jazz back together again. They'd been the very unfortunate recipients of an ambushed explosion courtesy of Barricade while on patrol. But Blue, sharp-shooter that he was, had managed to injure the 'Con enough to drive him away before he could finish them off.

They'd been fortunate. It had been a close one. Scarily so. Everyone was on edge. Certain that this was a prelude to something. That there'd be another attack. Perhaps that they'd even try to make a grab for Sam again. Which had only made the general level of paranoia skyrocket. Sam was lucky they'd even left him in his own room by himself. He wouldn't be surprised if they had somebody standing outside in the hallway just in case. Or possibly not. Him crashing to the floor wasn't exactly a soundless experience, but nobody had come running. And as the seconds continued to stretch on, it stayed that way.

Sam, for his part, just lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling. It took too much effort to stand. Much less climb back up on his berth. Where he'd only just stare at the very same ceiling. And wow… he really did need to put up a poster. Bribe Sunstreaker to paint it. Something. Anything to end the monotony. Anything that he could use as a focus to lull him back to recharge.

Not that he would anytime soon. Not with the images burned into his mind and the ghostly feel of Ravage skittering across his frame. No matter how tired he was – and Sam could admit to himself that he was exhausted – there'd be no more rest today. Maybe not even tonight. Nothing short of Ratchet's magic would knock him out. And with his inner mind theater playing in full Technicolor glory with surround sound and full on tactile hallucinations, that actually sounded rather tempting.

It would be so easy, too. To be induced into unconsciousness. The swift slide into oblivion. One that wouldn't be interrupted by anything short of a full nuclear assault or Grimlock fleeing from Annabelle. Recharge so deep that the twins could completely repaint him as a piñata and string him up in the rec room with him none the wiser. He'd be practically catatonic. Down so far inside himself that he'd require help getting back out.

It kept sounding better and better with each passing second. And all he had to do was take a quick walk down the hall to Ratchet's quarters. Not to the medbay since First Aid was there, and he'd want to talk about it. Would make all sorts of understanding noise and pat Sam on the back and generally be so sympathetic that the minibot would feel like he'd kicked a whole litter of puppies when he refused. Ratchet with his moans and groans and curses and projectile missiles was the much better option. And wasn't it a sad, sad day when Sam came to that conclusion?

He wasn't entirely certain how he managed it or even how long it took him to climb to his feet, but eventually, Sam got there. He stumbled a bit from tiredness and shot a forlorn look at his berth. Fighting the urge to just crawl into it, even if it meant staring at the ceiling for the next twelve hours or so. But his feet seemed to have a mind of their own and brought him to the door instead. Three tries later, he finally had it open, and to his surprise, there was no one waiting outside. He'd honestly expected there to be, but a glance in either direction showed no one.

The youngling pondered that for a moment before shrugging to himself and staggering down the corridor in the general direction he need to go. He passed a few humans along the way, and Sam just knew that had to be goggling at his half-stumble. He even swore that one of Will Lennox's men did a double-take, but he was too groggy to care what he had to look like. He somehow made it to his destination without passing another of the bots, which was fortunate. Especially since they probably would've just carried him to the medbay or had a full blown panic attack at the sight of him.

At least it was easy to get into Ratchet's quarters since nobody ever bothered to lock their doors, and Sam crept inside, optics straining in the dark. The door closed behind him as he went in deeper, effectively denying the light from the hallway. Which really sucked since he couldn't really remember the layout that well. Or at all, if he was perfectly honest.

He'd only been in here once. Over a year ago and when he was still human, still grieving Mikaela's death. He and Ratchet had talked for hours about her. About how unique and truly beautiful she was. Had been. Lively. Fiery. Wonderful. But so very fragile in the end. Broken upon her hospital bed. Where even Bee, the smallest of them at the time, couldn't visit. Dead but for the machines that kept her alive. Until he had signed the waiver and let her end with dignity. Let them take little pieces of her so that others might live. His girlfriend turned best friend turned family in everything that really mattered. She had deserved better than to just waste away. He'd done exactly as she would've wanted. Not that it made it any easier.

Not that he wanted to remember just how horrible and terrible and gorgeous even at her worst she had looked. Not that mixed with flashes of Ravage and agony and screaming. Mikaela deserved better than to have her memory tainted with that.

The minibot shook his head forcefully as he inched further inside and sidestepped to the left to avoid the desk seconds before running face first into it. Sam vaguely recalled that Ratchet's berth was along the far wall, though he wasn't certain if it was still there or not. He wobbled in that general direction until he saw a shape in the dimness, thankfully not encountering any obstacles along the way. Sam couldn't see much from his position. Just the outline of someone, and he was assuming it was Ratchet. Assuming and really, really hoping. It would be just his luck to have gone into the wrong room.

Somehow, he found the end and even managed to pull himself to the top. Only to freeze when he got there. Had he been human, he'd have a full on blush. As it were, Sam could practically feel his entire body twitch. Well, at least Ratchet was here. But honestly, Sam could've done without the second and much sleeker form on the recharge berth. Not that it took a genius to figure out who it was. Even processor-addled and running at half the speed of continental drift, it only took one quick and queasy peek.

He must've made a noise then. Undoubtedly something between a cough and a squeak. The hybrid love-child of a gasp and a choking sound. Must have since both forms stirred. But with his usual turn of fortune and Primus' utter disdain, it was actually Mirage who onlined first.

"Sam?" His tone wasn't quite sleep-filled or puzzled. More concerned than confused. "Sam," he repeated, and it was stronger this time. Certain as he sat up and onlined fully. "What do you need?"

Not a question about why he was there. Or what was going on. Or even what in the pit he thought he was doing. Just what he needed

"Sam?" Mirage prompted.

And the minibot belatedly realized that he hadn't answered. That the older mech was gazing at him with both worry and a heap of alarm. That his golden optics were bright in a way that was barely natural and certainly not when he was completely calm.

"I…"

But he couldn't find the words. It had sounded so simple back in his room, but faced with the reality, Sam wilted like a bot denied high grade for too long. Like Sideswipe when Prowl wouldn't let him out to play. He couldn't sleep. He'd had a nightmare. What was he? Seven? This was what kids did when they'd had a bad dream. Went crying to mommy and daddy and expected them to make it all better. No wonder they all freaked out if he got so much as a scratch. As long as Sam acted like a sparkling, they'd treat him like one.

"I… Nothing," he replied and started to back away towards the edge. "Nothing. Sorry. I… Sorry."

Mirage stared at him for a split second. "Wait," he called.

But it came out more as a command. The tone of voice that Prowl oh-so-loved and that could stop short even the unruliest Autobots.

"Wait," he repeated with even more authority. If that were possible.

Sam froze. One foot poised midair. He looked up in just enough time to see Mirage reach over to touch the medic beside him. Ratchet was awake before the racecar even had a chance to say his name. Sitting up and zeroing in on his patient within seconds. It was almost freaky how swiftly he went from dead to the world to awake and working. To assessing the youngling before him like Perceptor with a new specimen. And he didn't even have to ask why Sam was there. Ratchet seemed to already know. As if Primus had bent down and whispered it in his audio.

"Nightmares again."

Only it wasn't a question.

Sam glanced from Ratchet to Mirage and back. He debated how quickly he could get to the floor versus how fast he knew both of them could move. His poor little bot body came up short. As always.

"Yeah," he admitted finally, hunching over and stepping away from the edge of the berth.

"Again?" Mirage asked, though Sam couldn't be certain who it was directed at.

But it was Ratchet who gave an answering hum. He made no move. Not to get up or to reach for Sam. Not even to make a sound. Just watching him. Weighing and measuring. As if trying figure out the best approach.

Mirage, on the other hand, was not content to remain silent. "Has this been happening often?"

"Some," the youngling replied vaguely.

The racecar tilted his head at that. "Some?" he repeated. "And how frequent is that?"

"Occasionally," Sam hedged again. "Not all the time." His arms drew up to his chest like a barrier between them.

"Occasionally… Once an orn?" Mirage prodded, but his tone was so fragging reasonable. "Twice? Every other cycle?"

"Just every now and then. It's not a big deal." Sam waved a dismissive hand but promptly brought it back to his chest.

Mirage considered that with optics far too shrewd. "And yet, it brought you here," he observed.

And there was that same tone again. Light but deep at the same time. Full of undercurrents that the youngling didn't even want to contemplate. Didn't dare contemplate. Not if he wanted to keep from screaming at them both.

Sam turned to Ratchet then, but he wasn't sure if it was for an ally or as a distraction. But the medic didn't say or do much of anything to help. He seemed fine with letting Mirage take the lead in the interrogation. Sam really wished he wouldn't. Threats he could handle. Tongue lashings, too. But this soft sympathy was something else entirely. It made him want to cringe. To throw that gentle understanding in his face.

He unconsciously took a step back before he could stop himself. Mirage reached for him, but he automatically sidestepped. Which only brought him closer to the wall and effectively boxed him in. But it did serve to bring the racecar up short. Especially when Sam brought up his arms as if to keep him away.

There was something to his face then. To the way Mirage looked at him. To the way his hand slowly pulled back to rest at his side. He and Sam simply stared at each other for a long moment. Until Mirage started to speak again.

"Are--"

"Look… can we not talk about this right now?" Sam interrupted, and he couldn't keep the weariness from his voice. "I just want something to help me sleep."

Mirage gave a sound that was altogether too much like a sigh. He sat up completely and folded his legs to give Sam room to stand. Gaze not once leaving the minibot even when he turned to Ratchet.

The medic pursed his metal lips. "It'll only be temporary," he said finally. Acting as though Sam had dragged even that much out of him. "Just temporary. I really need another processor scan. Or for you to just talk to--"

"No!" Sam cut in harshly, but he deflated immediately afterwards. "No, that's alright. I just need a little recharge, and I'll be right as rain."

Mirage's disapproval was nearly palpable. But it paled in comparison to Ratchet's own. They both frowned at him. Identical expressions that were a tad foreboding even as they were also sympathetic. Really, the two of them together was too much. Like facing off against both twins at the same time.

"I'm fine. Really," the youngling insisted. "Just tired. And only for today," he added, giving his most winning and innocent expression. Even Prowl would've been moved by it.

It worked. Just like he knew it would. He'd learned it from the master after all. If any of the fifteen plus foot robots was good at looking cute, cuddly, and pathetic, it was Bluestreak. He even put Jazz to shame.

Ratchet started digging around in his subspace pocket. But Mirage still seemed unconvinced.

"Sam…" the racecar started to say, but he was interrupted.

"Please."

And it came out far more pleading than he intended. But it got the job done. Mirage folded like shrubbery under Ironhide's foot. Ratchet, for his part, just fished out a tool and lifted his optics heavenwards. As though asking Primus for patience. Or perhaps for some high grade to magically appear before him.

Either way, he scooted closer to Sam.

"You'll have to stay here for the rest of the cycle," he informed the minibot as he approached with bizarre tool in hand.

"I'd rather go back to my room. Thanks," Sam replied, inching away. "Not to be ungrateful or anything. But I think it would be a little awkward with the three of us." He gave his best self-depreciating look.

Ratchet wasn't buying it, however. "Either you stay here or you go to the medbay. Someone has to monitor you." He reached forward again.

Sam tried to bat him away. "Wait just a--"

The medic feinted to the left before going right. Catching Sam completely off guard. Something bit into his neck then, and the world dissolved away in a wash of black. The last thing he knew was the feel of Mirage's hands very gently lifting him up.

And then, there was only darkness.

\-----

Several days later, Sam was struck by madness. Or really, idiocy. Pure and simple idiocy. Only it wasn't his own.

"You want to what?"

It came out too squeaky and high-pitched for Sam's comfort. And some days, he thought that his masculine pride was just about the only thing he had left. Especially since he'd lost certain body parts essential to a human male. Stupid genderless robots.

Red Alert, not privy to his train of thought, lifted a metal brow. "Resume your defense lessons," he responded as though speaking to a very stupid child. Or Warpath after some of Wheeljack's special brew.

Sam just stared at him. His attention flickered around ops. Going from Red Alert before him to Ratchet hovering behind Blaster and his chair then to Jazz at the console next to them and finally to Optimus talking with Prowl on the far side of the room. All of them seemingly busy with their current tasks. All of them pretending not to listen.

"Why?" the minibot finally managed to ask. He centered on Red Alert again.

"Defense is important," the mech supplied as his non-answer.

Well, yeah. Even Huffer could've figured out that one. But hadn't they realized that Sam was a lost cause? That when faced with Decepticons all he'd managed to do was to get captured? That they'd taught him to run but that he couldn't even do that much right? That he was altogether useless at just about everything these days?

For such an advanced species, they really seemed to miss the simple things. Couldn't seem to grasp the obvious unless it punched them in the face first. Sam sucked at fighting of any kind. Up to and including the defensive sort. And no amount of training or patient instruction was going to change that massive glitch in his programming. He was cannon fodder. Pure and simple.

But nobody else seemed to get that. Or maybe they were just pretending that they didn't. Just like they were pretending that they weren't watching him. As if Sam didn't see the way Jazz stared at the monitor in front of him but obviously had audios fixed on a certain youngling and Security Director. Like Sam didn't notice how Ratchet kept glancing at him or that Blaster's fingers stilled on his controls every time Sam spoke. As if he didn't realize that he was the first and only bot Optimus looked at on his way out of the room. Or the fact that Prowl could pretend that Sam wasn't there all he wanted but that the minibot knew that if he even twitched in his general direction Prowl would notice.

And didn't that just burn a little bit? That this was the first time he'd been in ops in weeks. Months if he counted his little vacation with Soundwave. And Prowl hadn't so much as looked at him once. That he might as well have been made of smoke and air. That he was less than invisible. He was nonexistent to Prowl. Rather like Trent had treated him in middle school. Seeing him without seeing him. Well, except for when he'd been shoving Sam into lockers and taking his lunch money.

At least Prowl was less of an aft about the whole thing.

A hand suddenly waved in front of his face then. Sam snapped back to himself and glanced up to see Red Alert looking at him with something a lot like concern. He shifted from one foot to the other the sudden scrutiny.

"Oh… What?" the youngling questioned. "You say something?"

The Toyota studied him for a second. "Yes, I asked when you would like to begin again. Your lessons," he reminded patiently.

"Oh… er… Never," Sam said with a shrug, which only earned him a stern look. "See… here's the thing. I don't want them."

That seemed to baffle Red Alert. As though he couldn't fathom why Sam would ever refuse. As if he couldn't see the futility of the entire enterprise.

"I don't want them," Sam repeated. "Like at all."

The older mech tilted his head. "You need them," Red Alert insisted with a finger pointed at him.

Well, two could play that game.

"No, I don't," Sam countered and lifted his chin. He couldn't quite keep the wickedness from his voice. Really, he'd spent far too much time with the twins and Jazz. And besides, it was better than sulking.

Red Alert's optic flickered. "Yes, you do."

"No, I don't," Sam shot back.

"Do," the older mech contradicted

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No times a thousand." Sam put a hand on his hip.

"Yes times a…" Red Alert started to say but then shook himself. "I'm not playing this game with you."

"Oh, ease up on 'im, Red," Jazz chose that moment to cut in. Very obviously amused by their exchange as he sauntered over. Stiffer than he normally moved, but that was expected since he'd just been released from the medbay. "He's only just messin' with ya. Aren't ya?"

Sam gave him a look. He sidestepped as Jazz tried to sling an arm around his shoulders. It just made the lieutenant laugh.

"Sam's just not up fer lessons yet," Jazz continued after a minute. "He'll be back at it soon enough. Just let 'im get back in the flow of things first, Red. Another orn or two."

He looked between them as though judging their reactions. Red Alert seemed to be thinking it over. Sam was just doing his best to project nonchalance while trying to think of a way to delay them even further. If he kept up with that long enough, eventually they'd just give up. Maybe. Hopefully. Okay, probably not.

Finally, Red Alert nodded. "That's acceptable. We'll talk about this again in two orns. That will give Ironhide and Lennox time to return from California."

"Great. So that's all settled," Jazz put in with a winning grin. He clapped the youngling on the back hard enough to make him stumbled. "Right, Sam?"

"Sure. Whatever you say." Sam steadied himself and turned away from them.

"Glad I could help." Jazz beamed and followed after. "We're all looking forward to teachin' ya again. Showin' ya all our moves. We'll train ya right up."

Sam waved him off. "Yeah. Riiiiiiight," he muttered to himself. "Fat lot of good it did me the last time."

He didn't mean to say that last bit aloud, but it was rather obvious that he had. Doubly so when almost as one, every bot in the room froze. And Sam could've kicked himself for forgetting their super robot hearing. If he'd been thinking straight, he'd have remembered. As it were, Sam cast a glance at them before pulling a move out of their playbook. He pretended that he hadn't even said anything at all. Too bad they wouldn't let him get away with it.

"Sam…" Ratchet started to say. The first he'd spoken in the hour or so span Sam had been there.

His face was dark and supremely pained. As though he'd been struck straight through the spark. But the youngling gave him his most innocent expression. One that promised ice wouldn't melt across his pump and all his energon was high grade.

"What?" he asked as they all continued to stare at him. "Need something?"

Ratchet gazed at him with utter disbelief. Which went nicely with the variety of looks sent his direction by everyone else. Even Prowl had glanced up, though he quickly returned his optics if not his attention to his datapad.

"Yeah, actually," Jazz inserted then. "We've been meaning to talk ta ya 'bout somethin' for awhile now."

And there was something to his tone. Something that immediately set Sam on edge. Made his spark twist in his chassis and processor kick into high gear.

"Like what?" the youngling questioned, and he had the prickling sensation that he would not like this conversation at all.

However, it wasn't Jazz who answered. Instead, Blaster took the floor. Turning in his chair and clasping both hands together as if to keep them still. Even though Sam hadn't known him for as long as he had the others, this wasn't a good sign.

"It's about this thing we found," the red and gold bot informed him in such a way as if trying to give a hint.

Sam so didn't get whatever he was trying to sell though. That much must have shown on his face because something like a buzz spread across the room. A ripple of energy that went from one mech to the next with a wary but hurried pace. It only served to make the minibot even more suspicious, and Blaster shifted very uneasily in his seat as Sam turned to him again.

"Well, ya see," he began, only to give an almost fidget. "We recovered… That is… There was some… uh… _footage_."

"Footage?" Sam turned the word over in his mind as if that would force it to make sense. It didn't. "Footage. Like video?"

There was a round of glances exchanged. Nervous and apprehensive looks. Sam watched as Jazz lost the last vestiges of his grin and stood there solemn-faced, while both of Ratchet's hands tightened into fists. He could feel Red Alert all but vibrating with tension just beyond his shoulder, and even Prowl had paused completely. Not even pretending to be absorbed in his datapad anymore. Sam felt something icy and cold stab into his spark. Even as an equally frosty trickle went down his back.

This couldn't possibly be good.

He looked at Blaster again, but his friend was very resolutely staring at a point just above his head. Unable to meet his optics.

"What kind of video?" Sam's voice was deceptively calm. But inside, it was only getting colder. Practically glacial.

Blaster didn't say anything. But that only made Sam's awakening paranoia that much worse.

"What kind of video?" he repeated. Still calm but with an edge to it. Hard underneath the normal pleasantness.

Blaster glanced at the others for help. And Jazz tried to move in for the save.

"Look… It's not the good kind," the lieutenant cut in, doing his damnedest to grasp Sam's attention. "And it's not somethin' ya should see. I mean… seriously, man. We shouldn't have even mentioned it in the first place. It…" He shook his head. "Nevermind. Just let it go. Forget about it."

He stepped over to take Sam's arm then. Obviously wanting to lead him from the room. But the youngling stopped him with a sharp almost-glare.

"No, Jazz." Sam stepped further away from him and turned to Blaster once more. "I want to know. I want to know what he meant. What it is that you're not telling me."

"Look, Sam," Jazz began.

But he was cut off again. Only this time, it wasn't by Sam.

"I think we should tell him," Ratchet inserted, and he sounded so very tired. "He deserves to know. To understand what we saw."

The chill to his not-spine became a blast of arctic air.

"Understand what?"

And it took him a few seconds to recognize his own voice. To realize that it was him speaking.

"What Soundwave did to you," Ratchet replied ever so softly. "Not all of it. Just some."

Sam felt himself stiffened. "Oh? And how could you possibly…"

There was a sudden roaring in his audios. A rush of gravity as it tried to pull him to the floor. A tilt over the edge as the world fell out from beneath him. The tinkle of ice as he froze clean through and half-expected to break apart into little frosty pieces. Mind racing and veering sharply. Taking one and one and getting five thousand. Video and Soundwave and pain and humiliation. And had Sam still been human, he would've thrown up from the weight of it. As it were, he still staggered. Would've fallen to the floor had both Jazz and Ratchet not reached for him.

"No," he breathed. "No. No. No. No." The youngling shook himself like Mojo trying to rid water from his fur. "There wasn't… You didn't… _He did not record that!_ He didn't."

The only one Sam was trying to fool was himself, however. And he already knew the truth. Could see the gore of it in their optics as he jerked his head around wildly. Could see it in Jazz's blank face and Blaster's defeated posture and Ratchet as he tried not to crush Sam in his grip and Red Alert just staring at him. And even Prowl looking at him and taking a step forward.

"He didn't."

But it was a harsh whisper this time. Defeated and aching.

"He did. But most of it was destroyed when he scrambled the computers. Just a little bit was left. Just a few joors worth."

Blaster said it all in a rush. At lightning speed almost. As if that could make it any better. As if that could change the reality of it.

"I'm so sorry, Sam."

It was a murmur. Earnest and spark-felt. Gentle like a brush of a feather across glass. Anything heavier would make it break. But Sam was already broken; they just didn't realize the extent of the damage. Cracked and nearly shattered.

A minute passed in complete and utter silence. Weighted and impossibly heavy like Superion stepping on a minibot. Unbearable as one moment became two. And then…

"Who saw?"

And it didn't even sound like him anymore. His voice belonged to a stranger. Someone he'd never met and hoped never to see. Someone who'd gotten inside of him and was wearing his body. Going through the motions and putting up with the trembling across his frame.

"Who saw it?"

But they still didn't answer. Didn't say anything until he took a shaky step forward and nearly ended up on the floor due to feet that wouldn't obey.

"Easy now," Jazz said. "Just take it easy, man. It's--"

" _Who fragging saw?_ " Sam repeated, and it came out like a hiss.

"The four of us," the lieutenant replied with clear defeat. "Prowler. Prime."

"Bee?"

Sam said his name without thought. Without thinking the implication through.

"Not him," Jazz answered slowly as he inched closer. "We didn't want him ta see. He doesn't even know."

"Who does know then? Who else did you tell?"

He was back to that stranger's voice. Back to sounding like someone he didn't even recognize. So calm. So sensible. But deadly underneath. Just waiting for an excuse.

Jazz looked at him helplessly. "Just Raj, Smokey, and Aid. No one else, I promise. I haven't even told Blue."

All those people. Too many. But one was too many.

"I have to go," Sam decided then.

He was already moving away, already half-way to the door before they could even think to react. And he heard more than saw them scramble after him. Heard Ratchet and Jazz collide with Prowl as they chased after him.

"Wait," Jazz called then, sounding muffled from behind Ratchet's bulk.

But Sam had already slipped through the door. Was already racing down the hallway before he heard it slide open again. He turned the corner at top speed and kept going. Running faster than he ever had before. Even when he'd been chased by Ravage out in the desert those months ago. Even when he'd had the cube and Megatron roaring after him. But then, the bots pursuing him were just as dangerous. If in a different way. One that damaged him just as thoroughly but on the inside where it was much harder to fix.

" _Wait!_ "

Sam just kept running with no destination in mind. Darting around this corner. Dashing into this hall. Going from one to the next and weaving throughout the cross-corridors that could make the base all too much like a maze. Not slowing at all until he nearly rocketed into two of the Protectobots just outside Skyfire's lab.

"Hey!" Streetwise commented as he moved to steady Sam but quickly pulled back when the minibot snarled at him. "Somebody's havin' a frowny face day."

"Turn that frown upside down, man," his brother added with a grin.

Sam straightened and made a dismissive and extremely rude gesture. He brushed by them without a word and took off down the hall just as he heard someone thundering towards them from the way he'd just come.

"That's not nice at all," Streetwise called after him.

"Yeah. What's up with him, ya think?" the youngling heard Groove ask. "Sam's not normally like that. Oh… Hey, Ratchet--"

He turned the corner before he could hear anymore and kept going. Running all the way back to his room without further incident. Darting inside and only belatedly realizing that First Aid wasn't there. As usual. Which was a good thing for once. Sam might just have attacked him on sight. What a useless friend he'd turned out to be. He'd known the entire slagging time and hadn't said a thing.

The youngling actually managed to make it all the way up onto his berth before his pursuers reached his door. And he didn't need superhuman senses to hear the heated argument going on outside. To hear Ratchet forcing Jazz and the others to back off and wait there. Which meant that he wasn't surprised when the door opened to admit everyone's – _least_ – favorite medic.

And as usual, Ratchet didn't even wait for an invitation before he barged inside. But unlike he normally did, he didn't immediately start ranting. He didn't yell. He didn't curse. He didn't threaten. Ratchet simply stood there. Watching Sam. As if waiting. Perhaps for permission to speak. Maybe just trying to find the right words.

Not that Sam cared either way. He was too cold inside. Too numb.

"Get out," the minibot ordered without preamble. He folded his legs beneath him and flopped down on his berth in a graceful heap. His back nearly scraped down the wall, but it did put him in the perfect position to bang his head against a solid surface. One never knew when that might come in handy.

But Ratchet didn't leave. He was a fragger like that.

"I just wanted to see if you were alright," the older mech said in that same tone he used with Annabelle when she'd been crying. As though he'd never raised his voice above a whisper and his bedside manner was that of a saint.

Sam didn't even bother to give him a look. He just tipped his head back and glared at the ceiling. Since really, that had to be the stupidest thing he'd ever heard Ratchet say. He was in no way, shape, or form of _alright_. And an over-energized, retarded Seeker could see that.

"I'm perfectly fine," he replied instead, fighting the urge to put a hand over his chassis to warm the frozen metal. "Now, get out."

Again, Ratchet didn't. He was such a bad listener, and boy, did it ever show.

"No, you're not," the medic insisted, and he took a step forward but abruptly stopped. "You're not. And you need… We need to talk."

"We're already talking," Sam pointed out, and he slowly flexed his fingers. Absently marveling at how fluidly they still moved despite the chill in his frame. Cold enough to make him wonder why there wasn't frost dotting the outside.

But even that wasn't enough to distract him. To make him not feel so incredibly tired. To not make him want to lie down and never wake up. The end of the universe would be too soon to come back to consciousness.

"But you're not listening." Ratchet almost sounded normal with that one, but it didn't last long. "You're pretending when you're clearly not."

There wasn't anything he could say that wasn't a lie. So Sam didn't even try. He just sat there silently. Thinking about everything – _lies and videos and Ravage and laughter_ – and nothing. Trying hard to make that nothing stick. It never did. It always came back.

"Listen to me, Sam." Ratchet made a motion like he wanted to reach out and shake him but caught himself before he could. "Just listen."

But Sam wouldn't. He'd already heard enough. Had been pushed around too much already. It was all too much. It wasn't that one person knew. Not one. Or two. But a whole handful of them. They might as well have shown the fragging thing in the rec room for everyone and their brother to see. It certainly felt like they had. Like they'd told everyone but him and then pretended that they hadn't.

And it explained so much. So slagging much. They'd known. Not just guessing. Not just seeing his injuries and piecing it together. They'd actually seen. Seen how weak he'd been. How pathetic. How he'd cried and screamed and begged. How he would've told Soundwave just about anything. Would've sold his soul if he'd still had one. And they'd seen. Had watched. They knew. Really knew. Knew and still pushed at him. Still forced him to see Smokescreen. Still wanted to hear it from his own mouth. Still tried to get him to relive it all.

They knew.

Just like that the icy numbness inside of him went from something all too much like tiredness mixed with horror to outright rage. To the slow and cold burning fire that consumed him in seconds. A blaze without heat but with too much hate. The sort of loathing he'd reserved for Decepticons or the humans from the government who thought it made more sense to dissect the Autobots instead of befriend them. Roaring over everything in its path until he was left blissfully hollow inside.

"Listen to me, Sam," Ratchet said again. Softer this time. Gentler. "Talk to me. It'll make it easier. Make it better. Just talk. I'll listen."

Sam didn't see red. He saw black. Dark like what Soundwave had left him in for days at a time. All consuming and empty. The void of space between the stars and just as cold.

"What exactly do you want to hear?" the minibot demanded as he suddenly sat up.

And for once, he was himself again. No longer a stranger wearing his body. Only this was the part of himself that he never let anyone glimpse. The ugly part that rose up at odd times. The part that had enjoyed hearing what had happened to Ravage. The piece that hated Bee as much as he loved him and wanted nothing more to hurt him as he'd hurt Sam. But this time, he had a different target. Locked within the crossbars and practically begging for it.

"What do you want to hear?" he repeated, and it was sharp enough to draw blood if either of them had been capable of such a measly thing like mortality. "That Soundwave hurt me. Yeah, he did. A lot. That he made me beg. He did that, too. That he and his little freaks enjoyed it. Oh, they definitely did. They enjoyed every minute. Every cry. Every scream. Every sound I made."

He saw Ratchet's hand tighten into a fist. Saw it tremble with every new word. Shake as though it hurt him. But the medic didn't know anything about being hurt. He thought he knew, but he didn't understand a fragging thing at all. Make it easier? Make it better? Nothing ever would.

"Soundwave, he really liked to watch," Sam commented then, almost conversationally. "Liked to see what Ravage and the others could do. How creative they could get. The things they could come up with. He even rewarded them afterwards. Whichever one got the best reaction."

Ratchet actually offlined his optics. As if he couldn't stand the sight of Sam in that moment. Like seeing him was painful. As if he could keep the images from his processor. But if Sam had to see them, had to remember, then so did Ratchet.

"But you saw that part, right? You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" And he couldn't keep the ridicule out this time. "Did you watch it? Did you see what he did to me?"

"I… Yes," Ratchet replied softly, optics still dark and gaze turned inward. Hands pulled back to his chest.

"Did you like it then? Did you enjoy it? You must have since you keep asking about it."

That certainly got a reaction. Got Ratchet to look at him once more. To gaze at him with those blue, blue optics so hurt and accusing. As though Sam was the one in the wrong here. As though Ratchet hadn't asked to hear.

"You know that's not true," he responded, but it lacked his normal snark. Still gentle but with the undercurrent of regret.

But Sam didn't want guilt. He didn't want remorse. He sure as slag didn't want gentle or soft or positive. He wanted hurt. He wanted pain. He wanted Ratchet to hurt as much as he had. As much as he still did underneath it all.

He wanted Ratchet to fight back. But Sam also knew that he wouldn't. That the medic would hold back no matter how much he goaded. Ratchet was many things, but he wouldn't kick a bot when he was already down. And both of them knew that Sam had hit rock bottom and kept going. It didn't look like he'd stop any time soon either.

The hate inside him fizzled then. Flickered and went out. Just hollow inside. Nothing left at all. Empty chassis. Empty head. Empty life.

And it must've show. Definitely shown because Ratchet reached for him then. Reached for him like Bee and Aid and Jazz and so many of the others had down in the past few months since he'd gone from human to freak of nature. But this time, Sam didn't feel like putting up with it. With any of them.

"Don't." And it came out as a calm command with Ratchet just inches away. "Don't touch me."

Sam batted him off, and static crackled where their metallic skin touched. A sharp and strong jolt that raced from the palm of Sam's hand to Ratchet's arm and all the way up to his shoulder and beyond. The medic visibly shuddered from it and jumped at the contact. That and the look on Sam's face were enough to make him back all the way for the door, which opened automatically behind him.

"Get out," the youngling wanted to yell, but his voice had gone even colder. Subzero. As cold as he was inside. "Get out. You're not welcome here."

His hand went to the shelf behind him and reached for the first thing he could find. There weren't many options. Just a few datapads and other odds and ends. But as Sam's luck would have it, his fingers seized the one thing he actually cared about. But at the moment, he was beyond even that.

He threw the framed photo as hard as he could. Ratchet ducked instinctively out of the doorway, and it sailed past him to shatter in the hall. But the door slid shut before Sam could figure out where it had gone. Where she'd gone. His picture of Mikaela. The only one he had now. He'd regret it later; Sam knew that he would. He'd have to go find it when Ratchet wasn't hovering just outside his door. But right now, he just couldn't stand to look at it. At her. At what he'd lost.

Her. His mother. His humanity. His sanity.

But not his life. No, he still had that. For better or for worse.

And it looked like things kept getting worse.


	16. Turpentine

Rage was a funny thing, Sam realized over the next week. It could be hot. Fiery. Burning. More scorching than the sun. Incandescent. The sound of Ratchet yelling heatedly at the Jack after one explosion too many. Ironhide grabbing Warpath and Air Raid and banging their heads together. Red Alert giving the twins a dressing down after the last stunt gone horribly wrong.

But just as easily as it was hot, fury could also be cold. Frosty. Glacial. As lifeless and barren as Soundwave's optics. As Prowl's demeanor when there weren't words to express his displeasure. Like Sam himself as he seethed with resentment and something all together like betrayal.

Regardless of that, however, rage had the tendency to finally sizzle out. He'd burned for a day and a half. Had refused to leave his room and had all but bodily thrown Aid out when he dared show his face. Had sat there fuming in the dark. Cold then hot and back to cold. Until he'd just been hollow and empty inside. Tired. Merely going through the motions. Not even bothering to avoid them when he emerged because what was the point? What did it matter? What did it change?

Even if the only one he could even half-stand to look at was Bee. Maybe Bluestreak. Perhaps the twins. The bots who knew but didn't really know what had happened to Sam. Who hadn't seen it in technicolor and probably with closed captioning since that just seemed like something Ravage would do.

Pretending didn't make it go away. Didn't make them go away. They just talked over him. Or around him. To him. Not seemingly bothered when he didn't reply. Doing their best to gradually wear him down. To find a hole in his armor. Not realizing that there wasn't anything left inside. Nothing of value at least. Just him.

And he was so slagging tired of it all. Of them. Of himself. Of life in general. He just wanted to lie down and sleep for a year. A decade. Maybe even a century. But he couldn't even manage that. Couldn't do more than stare at the ceiling in a haze. Merely drifting without any real rest.

He was exhausted. So incredibly tired. He hadn't recharged fully since he'd been put out over a week earlier, and there was no way in the pit come Unicron himself that Sam was going anywhere near Ratchet voluntarily. He wasn't exactly a big fan of First Aid either. And certainly not enough to let himself be induced. That was the very last option on his mental list. Right below hitting his head against a blunt object until he knocked himself offline.

No, what he wanted – besides the obvious – was for someone just to listen. To actually hear what he said or didn't say. Or perhaps what he truly wanted was for them not to talk at all. For someone just to be there without demands or sympathetic looks or full of pitying understanding. Just to sit with him and show support without all the other baggage. And really, was that so much to ask? Was it too much to ask for someone who didn't pry or nudge or question him about everything? To be alone in his head but not physically?

Blaster was an option, he supposed. He'd certainly made it clear that Sam was welcome by his room anytime and that he was willing to listen to anything the minibot had to say. He wasn't demanding like the others. Didn't snoop or meddle or try to wheedle out the truth. Most of the time, Blaster was seemingly content to let the past remain just that. But then, maybe that was because the slagger had seen just like the rest of them. And Sam was willing to admit shamefully and only in the inner recesses of his own head, that the thought of being so close to Blaster's symbiotes made his skin crawl just a little. It wasn't their fault – Eject and Rewind and all the rest. But that just wasn't happening.

Bluestreak was a better choice. He hadn't pried, especially when Sam had made it clear that he didn't want to talk about it. Better yet, he had no clue what was going on. Had no idea about Soundwave's little video project. However, Jazz practically lived with him these days. And he was on the fragger of the year award list.

The twins were a possibility. They seemed to understand that there were some things best left forgotten. But he wasn't sure that he could admit being this weak to them. That he'd be able to look at them later on and not cringe. Not to mention there was the slim change that they'd go blabbing to Prowl.

And that – all of it – had eventually brought him to here. To standing outside Bee's door.

If Bee was surprised to see him, he didn't show it. He just allowed Sam to slip into his room without a word and gestured for him to sit on the berth. The only available seat since his desk chair was full of datapads. Sam climbed up without a word, and they sat in silence for a moment. And the youngling only mostly jumped out of his metallic skin when Bee settled a hand on his back, but he calmed as fingers stroked up and down in a soothing rhythm. Sam slowly relaxed to that sensation. To Bee all but giving him a massage.

It was nice. Pleasant even. And he luxuriated in it. Allowing himself to soak up the quiet attention.

But even then, it wasn't enough to lull him. To completely ease the tension in his frame. Much less that of his mind. And that much had to be pretty obvious to Bee since he stepped up his efforts with no discernable effect. Until finally, he stopped and moved to gaze at Sam. Still silent. Still not saying anything. But his optics said enough.

"I want to help you" they all but stated aloud. "Tell me how. Tell me what to do."

Sam turned away. Unable to face that look. He didn't know in point of fact. Or he already would've done it ages go. Would've made it all better. The best he could do was what he was doing right now. The only thing he could do was rest his head in his hands.

But Bee didn't seem to believe that, and he cupped Sam's face and turned his head back towards him. His other hand went to Sam's shoulder, a soothing curl of fingers as their optics met again. He was so warm sitting there. Warm and solid and real. Hand still on Sam's face and lightly tracing his cheek. Optics a very familiar shade of blue that seemed to glow even more than normal. Energy buzzing beneath his touch pleasant and gentle but with an undercurrent that it always seemed to hold. Something subtle but forever there. Just waiting for Sam to notice. For him to look deeper and listen harder…

And suddenly, it was like a light bulb went off in his head. Blinding and dazzling and shining on all those little hints and innuendos and unconscious suspicions. All but writing out the truth in capital letters to be sure that Sam saw and actually understood. Underlining it a few times for good measure, too. Then painting it all with bright fluorescence and adding some sparkles and hearts.

And his processor sputtered for a second as reality rewrote itself to take in this not-new information.

Bee actually… He really…

Oh, Primus on a pogo stick. Bee liked him. Really _liked_ him. A lot.

And wow, that sounded very junior high. But it was also very true. And so slagging painfully obvious now that he'd been smacked with the clue wrench a few times.

Yeah, he'd pretty much known that Bee felt a bit different for him than Sam felt in return. But he'd never considered that it might be in this particular way. Intellectually, he knew that the bots occasionally paired off or did the couple – or moresome – thing. And yes, he'd glimpsed enough of Blades and Slingshot to have that idea permanently burned into his mind. It's just that he never connected that with himself. Never thought to include that in his perceptions of them. Sure, Bee was the closest to him in age, but that still meant he was a few thousand years older. Not that it really showed most of the time. Bee wasn't the most mature of the bots. Though to be fair, even some of the older ones weren't the epitome of that either.

Abruptly, Bee pulled back. Put space between them on the berth. And Sam realized that he'd just been staring and not saying anything at all. A fact that was only reinforced when Bee drooped like a wilted flower and resorted to his usual backup plan when he'd done something Sam didn't like.

" _When I say I'm sorry, will you believe me?_ "

"No, Bee, it's alright," Sam assured him instantly. "I'm not mad. Not at all. Just… surprised," he admitted.

Bee both perked up and slumped more at that. Like he couldn't decide if he was forgiven or not.

Only he didn't need to be forgiven. Not for this at least. And not when he'd just given Sam a horrible and strange but incredibly tempting idea. One that was gaining in mental popularity the more he thought about it. The more he considered this new dimension between them and then his current situation and predicament. As he considered friendship and comfort and just connecting with someone. Even if it meant doing something he wouldn't do normally. Something was probably a BAD idea.

He was here. And Bee was here. And really, what would it hurt? He wasn't a kid. Not a sparkling. And it couldn't be too different from being with a human. Right?

Thanks to what he'd overheard from the twins and the others, he had a vague idea what he was supposed to do. And what he'd seen of Blades and Slingshot also filled in many of the blanks. He could figure out the rest on his own.

Somehow, Sam wanted to do just that. Wanted to reach out and touch Bee like he hadn't before. And he discovered his body inching forward in way that could be termed unconsciously seductive. But it must've worked since Bee's attention was riveted on him. Trying and failing to act as if he wasn't. As if his optics didn't note every movement Sam made.

" _You shouldn't be here. I feel awkward... and good._ "

The last part was added after a few beats. As though only reluctantly. But it was exactly what Sam wanted to hear as he drifted closer. Making up the difference between them. He didn't know how to initiate… _things_ , but he figured that touch was always a good idea. Even a mostly chaste one that only involved ghosting a hand down Bee's face and then trailing it along his neck.

Bee leaned into it, however. Actually put a hand on Sam's shoulder to steady himself when the motion was repeated a second time and then a third.

" _This is wrong, but I can't help but feel like…_ "

Not nearly so reluctant as before. And steadily losing even that as the youngling pressed closer. He managed a smile. A small one, little more than the edges of his mouth turning up. But a smile nonetheless.

Bee's optics centered on that. On the fact that Sam wasn't pulling away. That for once, he actually seemed interested in something. In Bee.

Sam could all but see the flare of hope. Just as surely as he could see it squashed by reality. He witnessed the war between them. The battle for all reasons Bee shouldn't against his obvious desire. Fighting _wrong_ and _too young_ and _doesn't understand what he's doing_ with _longing_ and _wonderment_ and _he's actually offering_ …

And then, Bee reached for him. No hesitation. Just reaching out as if consequences didn't matter. Or maybe that they simply didn't apply.

Either way, Sam didn't care.

Slowly and deliberately, as though he'd pull back at the first sign that Sam wasn't enjoying himself, Bee stroked a hand down his side. Aiming in a general area that shouldn't at all be erotic in a human. Easing his fingertips along plates and metallic edges and somehow managing to slip in between them. Giving a little caress that shot sparks up his sides and left a tingle of enjoyment in their wake. And Sam could feel Bee's energy field as a buzz along his shell. Normally, it was something he ignored. Something that he didn't even so much as register. But it was noticeable now. Warm and vibrating and beckoning him closer. To carry on even as reason and sanity screamed at him to stop.

He firmly told them both to shut up. He didn't need to think. He didn't want to think. To remember. He just wanted to be left alone in his head. Even if just for a little while.

And he allowed Bee to maneuver them more fully onto the berth and to ease him backwards. To stroke both harder and deeper. To then settle on top of him.

' _This is weird_ ' was Sam's first thought. The fact that he didn't like it was his second.

But he also didn't _not_ like it either. He couldn't be sure if it was because this was Bee. If it was because he was a mech and ostensibly male. Or if because he was a bot in general. Maybe some combination of the three.

He was still trying to decide when Bee's radio gave a sizzle of static. Like he wanted to use it but had forgotten how. Fortunately though, Sam headed him off at the pass.

"Could you… um… not do that right now?" he questioned and watched as those blue optics focused somewhere decidedly higher than they'd been a minute before. "It's just kinda… Yeah. Please don't do it."

Bee paused for a fraction of a second and then just nodded. His fingers were still stroking along Sam's chassis. Caressing seams that the youngling had never even realized he had. But now that he'd adjusted, it was actually sort of nice. Tingly. Like when Mikaela used to give him backrubs. Only those had mostly been platonic, which was sort of a problem here.

Kissing was a human thing. He'd seen some of the bots do it though, but well, even the thought of kissing Bee was strange. Not to mention the little fact that Bee didn't really have a mouth. At least, not a mobile one.

Either way, it effectively killed the idea of stepping this up with a kiss. So instead, Sam settled for using his mouth on Bee's neck. Vowing to never admit that he got the idea from Slingshot. Nibbling as best he could with the faux teeth his bot body had and trying to judge what would be most sensitive. He wasn't entirely sure how successful he was being, but Bee seemed to like it well enough. Tipping his head back to allow better access and stepping up his own response.

It was slow going though. Especially since it was pretty obvious that while Bee had a better idea what they were supposed to be doing, that this was his first practical application. Not to mention that Sam had zero experience. At least with giant alien robots. He'd been with Mikaela. And yeah, it had admittedly only been like twice. Unless he counted that time they'd been interrupted halfway through by his mom.

Which he tried not to think about. Much less remember. Ever. For any reason.

Anyway, she'd been soft. All smooth skin and curves under her clothes. And Bee just… _wasn't_. He was sharp and angular and hard. Not to mention taller and heavier and made of metal. And if Sam hadn't been so single-mindedly trying not to really consider the consequences of what he was doing, he would've felt awkward. But blissfully ignoring thought did have its good points.

All he had to do was feel. The hum of an energy field. The heat of another body. A berth beneath him. Bee's fingers as they reached and touched and caressed things that shouldn't feel so incredibly good.

Sam didn't want to think anymore. He didn't want to remember. Or be bugged. Talked at. Harassed.

And for little while, he got his wish.  
  
\----- 

He felt weird. Well, not so much weird as… strange. Odd. Peculiar. Bizarre. Unusual. Not normal.

So okay, perhaps weird was the word he meant.

Waking up next to Bee wasn't all that abnormal in and of itself. Sam had onlined plenty of times to find him there. But it was the knowledge that made it different. The memory of metal scraping together unpleasantly but feeling strangely good at the same time. The feel of paint streaks across his chassis, though thankfully nowhere else. The lingering static across his metal shell and the thrumming of his pump. The inexplicable soreness to the lines and parts in various places. An odd hum in his spark, which twinged as he scooted away from his berth-mate.

He sat up gingerly and very slowly maneuvered the rest of the way from Bee, who didn't even stir. It didn't take much to slither down to the floor since he was on the side closest to it, and he paused to do a self-inspection using the glow from the neon bar sign Bee had by the door. Aside from some yellow scrapes, Sam couldn't find any outward evidence of what had occurred. A good thing indeed. He really didn't want to have to explain to anyone else when they inevitably saw him.

And even more than that, he didn't want to be here when Bee onlined. That would be the epitome of _awkward_.

As such, Sam crept his way to the door. Shot a look over his shoulder at the still slumbering Bee. And eased his way out into the hallway once the coast was clear. It's was late; he could tell without having to see a clock or even try to access his internal one. Late enough that all the humans were asleep and most of the bots were off doing whatever it was they did during the long hours of the night. The corridors were completely vacant save for the usual cameras stuck at odd intervals. Hunching over hid the paint streaks from their view enough to get him to the washracks. Which fortunately remained empty as Sam vigorously scrubbed himself from head to foot and removed all the incriminating evidence.

Once he was done, the only other proof remaining on him were some spots where his own paint had come off. Probably left behind on Bee. Fortunately though, Sam was such a deep black that it was hard to tell anything was missing without feeling for it, and it was in minute enough amounts that he could blame it on his own clumsiness or something similar. As long as Bee gave himself a good scrubbing down too, nobody would ever have to know.

And that was the way Sam wanted it.

In the light of returned reason and with a decent amount of recharge, reality ultimately reasserted herself. And like with many beings the morning after, Sam realized what a complete and utter idiot he'd been. Stupid. Moronic. Out of his glitched mind.

He'd just had the equivalent of hot robot sex. With Bumblebee. He, Sam, plus Bee. Doing things that before he'd become a bot he hadn't even thought were possible. Things that would send the others off the deep end if they ever found out. As they yet again oh-so-conveniently forgot that he'd been a human adult before this and as such capable of making his own decisions.

Still, it'd been… almost nice. It'd been good not to think. To not remember. To just feel. Pleasant and warm. Pleasurable even. Not as good as with Mikaela. But still enough so that he'd be both blushing and hot and bothered if he were still capable of the former.

Sam abruptly turned off the water with that thought and stepped out of his stall, which was situated in the back. He'd chosen that destination because the rest of the room was all open spaces meant for communal bathing, and he'd learned his lesson about that months ago. It also had the added bonus of shielding him from prying eyes, not that there were any, and giving him a moment of warning if somebody else walked in. Not that they did as he walked to the giant dryer by the door and freed himself of excess water in under a minute.

However, the minibot hesitated there and cast a glance at the nearby mirror that he was fairly sure was a contribution from Tracks. All he saw were his own green optics staring back at him. Narrowed and still tired. But calmer than they'd been the last few weeks. Steadier. Not completely dead.

That buoyed him enough to face the exit again, and heaving a sigh through his intakes, Sam stepped back into the hall. It was fortuitously still empty, and he relaxed visibly as he went on his merry way. Ducking his head a bit so as not to look into the cameras as he passed. As if that would be an invitation for Red Alert or whoever was on duty to call him out.

But Sam's good luck didn't hold all the way back to his room. Just two corners and short corridor away from it, the youngling ran into a problem. Rather literally.

Somehow, he managed to sidestep enough that the looming white and red mass didn't collide with his head or chest. But Sam still neatly rammed into Ratchet with his shoulder. Not that he hurt the much larger mech anymore than a goldfish could injure a shark by swimming into it. In fact, Ratchet reached out to steady him. Seemingly more concerned for the youngling than himself. Looking him over for damage without even realizing it.

And Sam instantly felt a well of panic centered somewhere near his spark. Which only doubled as those blue optics scanned over him again and seemed to focus on one of the areas Sam knew was missing a bit of paint.

He shrugged off Ratchet's hand and took a sharp step backward without thinking. Crossing his arms over his chassis in a move that was both defensive and effectively blocking it from view. The medic seemed pained by even that small move. As if he took it as a personal affront, but he covered it up quickly enough. Again eyeing Sam from top to bottom in a way that sent the youngling's pump nearly out of his chest.

"What?" Sam demanded then, going on the offensive since it was the only thing he could think to do. Especially since his limbs weren't obeying and he couldn't make a run for it.

Which wouldn't look suspicious at all. _Not at all._

Ratchet's optics flickered in surprise. Probably because Sam was actually speaking to him. The closest they'd come to a conversation or words since the Incident. And yes, it deserved capital letters. Even if only in the safety of his own thoughts.

"I just…" Ratchet shook his head and tried for something in a more neutral tone. "How have you been, Sam?"

What was he doing? Taking lessons from Prowl in conversation-starters? Since honestly, that one was bad. Pathetically so. Enough to actually make the minibot feel bad for a second and start to relax. But only until he remembered that Ratchet was Unicron's bastard child with Megatron. That he tormented innocently injured bots, probably kicked puppies, and had lied to Sam's face. Not to mention that he would so notice something was off and figure out the horribly idiotic thing Sam had just done.

And therefore, he couldn't be trusted. Sam had to get rid of him.

The youngling, for his part, took a proverbially deep breath. Drew up his so recently rekindled resentment. And let Ratchet have it.

"Peachy keen." He started with a falsely cheerful tone that would've even made Jazz proud. "I mean, other than the fact that I was lied to. Had bots watch a video of me getting tortured. Or that I'm Soundwave's new favorite science project." Rounded it out with ticking off his fingers before heading for the climax. "Besides all that, I'm _juuuuust_ perfect. How about you?" And topped it off with a not at all friendly smile.

Ratchet froze. Blue optics falling to a shade so pale that they were all but white. Hands clenching and unclenching and fingers spasming like they didn't know what to do with themselves. And he made a sound not unlike a human swallowing around a hot lead bullet lodged in their throat.

"I… Listen… Sam--"

"No," the youngling interrupted with a sharp edge, and this time he didn't have to completely fake it. If there was one thing his… _encounter_ with Bee had done, it'd given him back his voice. His energy.

His fury that they could know and not say a fragging thing to his face. Instead had to run around behind his back and then act all surprised when he was upset.

"No, I won't listen," Sam informed him. "I've already heard enough. I've already had enough of you."

Ratchet tried again, "I never meant--"

"I said no," Sam repeated. "And I mean it."

And Sam could tell that he was struggling. Ratchet hated to be interrupted, and had he been anyone else and the situation any different, the medic would've already launched into a rant that would peel paint and make Decepticons beg for mercy. But he was Sam, and Ratchet never yelled at Sam. Not really.

Quiet lingered heavy and stilted between them. Weighted and boggy like a thick fog that made it hard to breathe. But it was better than the alternative. Better that this was said and not something else. Better that Ratchet be struck silent instead of searching for clues.

"I'll just… be going," Ratchet said finally. After what had to be ages. Years even.

But he hesitated. As if waiting for Sam to comment. As if actually wanting him to say something more. Something else. Just to speak. But the youngling merely gave him a look that was painfully familiar. One that Ratchet himself loved to use on his patients when they were being stupider than usual. The medic nearly fidgeted when it was directed at him but probably not for the normal reason bots did.

Still, it did the trick. And finally – finally! – Ratchet walked away. Slowly and hesitantly. Until he was a small shape at the end of the corridor and disappearing around the bend.

Sam didn't dare sigh in relief. Not willing to test his luck. Not with the way Primus had it out for him. Which proved to be a smart thing indeed when he turned back around and started to move. Only to falter.

Fireflight was standing a few feet away. Had most likely been there for the whole exchange. And for once, his attention was riveted on the here and now. Focused on Sam to the exclusion of all else.

The minibot fought the urge to snarl at him. To demand what in the pit he thought he was looking at it. But that Sunstreaker-like impulse died away at the look on Fireflight's face. Contemplative and not pitying. Interested but thoughtful. Studying Sam as if he'd never quite seen anything like him. And it was entirely possible with Fireflight that he had in fact not noticed Sam before. No offense to the guy, but he wasn't exactly swift on the uptake. Distracted as he was by shiny lights and sparkles and passing butterflies.

Nonetheless, Sam never would've been able to tell that by looking at him. Not with the way he was staring right back.

"You know," the Aerialbot said then and in a very conversational tone, "that wasn't very nice."

Sam gave the bot equivalent of a blink. "I--"

But Fireflight went on without him.

"Ratchet was just trying to help. He worries about you."

And something a lot like guilt picked up a rock and bashed Sam in the back of the head with it. Once. Twice. A few more times to really hammer the message home.

"He does worry," the mech continued softly when Sam couldn't do more than open and close his mouth. "A lot. All the time. He just wants you to get better. He loves you."

Guilt, apparently deciding that the proverbial rock wasn't working well enough, instead went for a boulder. Pounding into Sam's bot brain until the only outside thing he could notice was the Aerial bot still standing there. Still watching but now with an emotion bordering on sadness.

"We all do," Fireflight informed him then, optics wide and open and completely guileless. "We're your friends; we only want to help you." He looked at the youngling for a long moment. "Maybe you should let us."

And then, he turned and walked away.

Sam could only gape after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from: _Sorry_ by Daughtry, _You Shouldn't Be Here_ by Damien Rice, and _Superstar_ by Taylor Swift.


	17. Silhouette

Guilt, Sam decided, was even worse than anger. It was worse than being indifferent but inwardly seething. It was worse even than embarrassment when he realized just exactly what they'd seen with that slagging video. He wasn't numb anymore. Not frosty and frozen. Not simply going through the motions. Not just here without a stake in anything.

Guilt made him feel. Put everything into sharp and picture-perfect clarity. Made him realize what a complete and total fragger he'd been and still was. Gave him little jabs in the back of his processor that told him he was a bad friend. A bad bot. And a bad person in general.

Screaming at Ratchet in his room and then mouthing off to him in the hallway were the tip of the proverbial iceberg. He'd been horrible to them for a long time now. Probably since he was first turned into a giant robot space alien.

And not just to Ratchet either. To all of them. Prowl. Blaster and his symbiotes. Aid. Jazz. Bee.

That last one in a different way than the rest. But Sam shouldn't have done… _that_. Shouldn't have let it go that far. It was wrong. Bee liked him in a way he didn't return. And Sam knew it. Had honestly known it for a while. Had known better. But he'd still done it. Still allowed it.

Primus, this was so messed up. It was all so fragged and slagged and glitched that he could hardly remember his own name sometimes. Transformations and tortures and experiments and exhaustion and rage and remorse. All twisted inside of him until he didn't know what he was supposed to feel or think or be.

So yeah, maybe he had a right to be confused. To be angry. To be frustrated. And he was still both of those. But he didn't have the right to take it out on everybody around him. And truthfully, out of everyone involved, Bee was probably the most innocent in all of this mess. Well, except for the part where he'd made Sam into a bot in the first place. And perhaps Sam still hadn't forgiven him for that. Maybe he never would. Perhaps this was his way of punishing both of them. Or maybe he'd really and truly just needed not to be such a jumble of contradictions for a while. Perhaps it was better just to pretend it had never happened. Since really, that was the only thing he could do right now.

As for the others, he wasn't ready to forgive yet. He wasn't. They pushed, and they lied, and they forced things he'd rather forget. But maybe he could be less of a slagger about it. Be angry without being a 'Con in disguise. Be a decent person and not snap at all and sundry or cringe away from them. Dislike them in the safety of his own head and keep his fragging mouth shut.

Though honestly, they were making that last part difficult.

Another day. Another disgusting cube of energon. Another attempt to get Sam to open up. Or perhaps just to pester him. This was Jazz after all. It was his modus operandi.

They talked around him. Sometimes to him. But Sam limited his responses to the nonverbal kind if he even gave one at all. Yes, he was trying to be a bit less of a slagger, but that didn't mean he had to be nice either. He'd settle for neutral. Not on their side but not against them either.

But they were just making it so fragging hard. Especially with their current topic of conversation. The wonder and mystery that was Slingshot and Blades. The new _it_ couple of their base. Known for their passionate arguments and equally passionate couplings. No few humans and younglings had been permanently scarred walking in on them.

And not for the first time, Sam actually wondered if they'd forgotten he was sitting there. It wouldn't be the first time that the older bots had started an R-rated discussion, only to suddenly remember his presence. At the moment, they were discussing the less than appropriate behavior of the pair. But keeping in mind that this was Jazz, aided and abetted as he was by an eager Blaster and egged on by Mirage, it was less of a debate and more of a recap of their shenanigans. Everything from their past fights to their present affair. Complete with their love of the public spectacle.

Sam even momentarily forgot that he wasn't supposed to like them anymore as he pulled a face at the latest remark. One that involved the aforementioned couple, the base entrance, Simmons, Red Alert, and a whole heap of mortification for all involved.

"I keep finding them everywhere," the minibot grumbled in response.

And really, he was very suspicious of that closet now. But it seemed like everyone and their brother kept finding an excuse to send him there.

Mirage, Blaster, and Jazz chuckled even harder at that. At his misfortune in general.

"Aw… cheer up, Sammy," Jazz commiserated. "Someday, you'll be old enough ta be really interested in the same things. You'll look back on this an' laugh. Wonder why ya were so embarrassed in the first place. I don't know; maybe you'll even be askin' them for pointers."

The youngling gave him a look. Even as he did his utmost not to appear guilty. Thankfully, Bee wasn't there since that would've made it a hundred times harder.

"We were all young once upon a time," Mirage added. "So eager to try out new things."

"New bots, he means," Blaster inserted all too wickedly.

"That, too," the racecar allowed, smiling just a bit and leaning back in his chair.

"Almost sounds like yer lookin' for a newer model," Jazz went on teasingly. "I seem ta recall that yer current berth-warmer is a bit of a fossil."

Mirage merely made a derisive sniff. "I'm rather satisfied with the one I have now. No need to replace him when he's already trained to my specifications." He reached for his energon but only after he used the same motion to idly pat Sam on the arm.

"Nice one there," Blaster allowed cheerfully. "Besides, you've room to talk, Jazz. Even got ya a younger one, too."

"Blue's not _that_ much younger," the lieutenant defended. "Besides, we're more circumspect than some. Don't have ta go 'round flauntin' it in everybody's faces."

"As if we all didn't already know. Didn't see it coming a million light years away," Mirage commented from behind his cube.

"Yer one ta talk there, Mrs. Hatchet," Jazz shot back with a smug grin. "Practically wearin' an apron and everythin'. Tell me, are ya plannin' on having any more kids sometime soon?"

There was an odd tone to his voice as he said it, and Mirage shifted in his seat on the other side of Sam. He took a long drink of his energon and set down his cube primly.

"Not at this time," the racecar answered evenly and cast a glance around the table. "One is more than enough."

The other two laughed, but Sam was just confused. Since when did Mirage and Ratchet have a kid? And why had Sam never met him?

He was still figuring that out as they continued talking around him. It took him a few minutes to realize that and catch up. Part of him was thankful for what he'd probably missed.

"-not that big a deal. If ya've seen the twins molest Prowl once, ya've seen it a thousand times," Jazz dismissed from Sam's left.

"That's still not as bad as that time I caught Silverbolt and Skyfire," Blaster cut in. "And what a pretty picture that was."

"When was this?" Mirage questioned, but it nearly came out as a demand. He'd obviously not heard that nifty piece of gossip, or perhaps the two fliers had learned their lesson.

"Back when I was stationed in Iacon," the red bot replied nonchalantly. "That was right before we launched the Allspark."

"Are they still…" the racecar trailed off with a meaningful nod of his head.

Blaster shrugged. "Could be. S'not like I'm gonna go up and ask or anything."

They both turned to Jazz. If anybody on the base knew the goings-on of the other mechs, it'd be him. The lieutenant just glanced at Sam for a second before giving a sharp nod, but he didn't say anything else on the matter. Instead, he settled himself back more fully in his chair and gazed at the youngling again.

Sam wasn't sure he liked that look. Especially not when it was oddly intense. He just did his best to seem completely uninterested as he sipped unhappily at his own cube.

Several moments passed like that, until Jazz finally gave a sigh.

"Don't feel left out, lil buddy. Bee's still too young, too," Jazz assured him. "Nothing ta be ashamed 'bout."

Sam tried not to shift awkwardly in his seat, tried to remember that they were sitting at his table and not the other way around. That he wasn't actually a part of this conversation. And of course, they'd talk about this now. It was like Primus had branded some giant cosmic sign on his person that said he'd been a very naughty boy indeed. Like they could all tell just what he and Bee had been up to.

"There's no way that anyone can tell about that, is there?" he asked oh-so-casually. "I mean, when bots do their… _thing_." Sam made a vague gesture.

Jazz, however, gave him a puzzled look. Which might've had something to do with the fact that the youngling was actually speaking to him now and not necessarily the subject matter.

"What? Interfacin'? Well… it really depends on the method. Sinking fields. Or a hardline connection. Or spark-sharing. But no, not usually unless they decide to swap paint samples." He paused for a second and studied Sam's face. "Why? Ya interested in tryin' it out or somethin'?"

"No," the youngling replied a bit too quickly. "Just wondering."

Jazz and Blaster traded a glance before their optics flickered to Mirage. The racecar slowly pulled back from his energon and steepled his fingers together.

Why were they looking at him like that? They couldn't possibly know, could they? About Bee? No one had seen them, right? And he'd been very sure to miss the cameras and get rid of the evidence as soon as he could, before anyone could see him. So what could they possibly…

Oh, slag.

That was great. Just great. They now all thought he'd been child molested by Soundwave or his symbiotes. Which he could honestly say had never happened. Soundwave and his minions were many things – Decepticons, torturers, murderers – but they weren't rapists. Besides, wouldn't they've seen evidence of that on their damn video anyway? Or had they actually been honest for once when they'd said that there had only been a little of it recoverable?

"Sam," Mirage began in a gentle and deceptively easy tone, "You haven't… You have not attempted such things, have you?"

Jazz and Blaster were trying their hardest not to seem interested and to not look at him or each other. Both were failing spectacularly.

"Of course not," Sam deflected. "Why'd you even think that?"

The racecar shifted in his seat and placed his palm down on the table to keep it from clenching. "Are you sure?" he asked in that same soft voice. "You are very young and unlikely to… _choose_ to do that on your own."

Blaster visibly flinched at Mirage's choice of words, and Jazz didn't look much better. Holding himself unnaturally still with his optics unreadable behind his visor.

"I know I'm young," Sam defended. "Besides, who could I've possibly done that with? I was just curious," he added with enough sincerity in his voice that he sounded believable to his own audios.

Blaster and Mirage seemed visibly relieved at his denial. But Jazz didn't look entirely convinced. There was something to his face. To the hum of his processor that was audible even a few feet over. To the optics barely visible now with his head tilted that way. As if he could look right through to Sam's spark and know exactly what he'd done and with whom.

Even as he fought down a burst of panic, a part of Sam wondered what he'd do – what any of them would do – if he ever really learned the truth.

But Primus chose that moment to smile upon him. It was about fragging time.

Blaster was just in the process of reaching for his drink when he glanced at the door and let out a low whistle. Which effectively caught the attention of both Mirage and Jazz.

"Don't look now, Sam."

Which of course meant that he just had to look.

"Gah," Sam muttered and was already scrambling to his feet in the hope that he'd avoid this encounter.

Unfortunately, Blades must've taken that move as permission to waltz over with a satisfied smirk and some suspicious looking paint scraps. Three guesses what he'd just been doing, and the first two didn't count. Jazz and Blaster laughed outright at the expression on Sam's face as the mech came closer, while Mirage hid his smile behind his hand. The youngling could tell from the gleam in their optics that the next several moments were sure to fuel the rumor mills for days.

"Have you no shame?" Sam demanded before Blades could even sit down.

That brought the Protectobot up short. His optics flickered in the approximation of a blink, and he just seemed stumped. As if he didn't already know. Private time was supposed to be just that. _Private_. No innocent younglings allowed and not done in a place where everyone and their four brothers could just stumble upon it.

"Er… What?"

"Everywhere!" The minibot shook a hand at him. "Seriously, dude. Everywhere."

Sam heard titters behind him. The noises of Jazz and Blaster trying and failing not to laugh. At least Mirage was quieter.

"Everywhere," Sam repeated with a disgusted tone. "The rec room and Jack's lab and even the medbay! And stop sending me to that closet!"

He whirled to jab his finger at the closest bot – Jazz – as if it were his fault. Who knows; perhaps it was. He and Primus both. Plus Optimus and maybe Unicron for good measure.

Jazz just held his hands up. But his grin was too much of a giveaway, and Sam felt one optic narrow. He shook his head and shot Blades another look before turning on his heel and heading for the door. Behind him, there was a round of snickers and the sound of someone being slapped on the back. Which was followed by a confused mutter from Blades.

"What's his problem?"  
  
\-----   
  
Sam honestly hated himself sometimes. He really and truly did. He was a bad person; he knew that much. He hurt his friends. He hurt Ratchet and Prowl and even Jazz and the others. He hurt Bee and continued to do it even now.

Here, he was. Consumed by all those guilty feelings. Roiling in a mass of recriminations and promises to be better. And what did he do?

He went to Bee again. Had his wicked bot way with him. Knowing that he shouldn't. Knowing that this would only make things worse. It was wrong and horrible and a completely terrible thing to do. But Bee had offered – optics blue and glowing like he'd never seen before. And Sam was only… well, not human. But he was still fallible, and he was tired, and he was maybe a bit lonely. And he really needed not to feel anything for a while. Not anger or remorse or like he was the sludge of the earth that someone had accidentally stepped in.

He didn't want to think about that. Or what had happened with Ratchet. Or Soundwave. Or being in a bot body.

And Bee had offered. And maybe, just maybe, Sam had needed to be not a freak of nature for a little bit. To get away from the pitying stares sent his direction. Particularly those earned from his newest supposed horror. But try as he might, Sam couldn't convince Jazz – and now, Ratchet and Smokescreen and even Optimus Prime – that no, Soundwave hadn't molested him. Neither had his minions.

Tortured, yes. Bad touches in his special places, no.

Unfortunately, nobody seemed to believe him. It didn't help that their wondrous video – the damn thing that had them all Seeker-stepping around him – only covered a small amount of the glorious days he'd been at Casa de 'Con. It didn't help that Jazz was instigating the whole spiel. Convinced that there were things Sam wasn't telling them.

Which was true. But not in the way they thought. All of Sam's sexual exploits had been and still were entirely consensual. Not that they needed to know about that.

And once again, the other bots were whispering behind his back. Saying things that clearly weren't for him because they stopped immediately whenever he got near. Which only made Sam that much more suspicious. Made him not only wonder but know that the gossip was still going strong. Especially when he overheard Skydive and Tracks talking about him in the rec room.

Being mad at Jazz was a novel experience. He'd been annoyed by him before; really, who hadn't? But only Prowl ever seemed truly furious. Still, Sam couldn't quite contain the prickle of anger that shot down his metal spine. If Jazz had kept his enormous mouth shut, this wouldn't be a problem. Sure, Blaster and Mirage had been there, but Sam had mostly convinced them to the contrary. They were both suckers for large, beseeching optics. Jazz though was immune. Probably due to far too much time spent with Bluestreak, who could out innocent Sideswipe and the Lennox kids with both hands tied behind his back.

Jazz hadn't believed him when Sam had denied it. He'd started this whole mess up again, and truthfully, it wasn't a surprise that Sam was feeling just a twinge stressed. Or that he'd gone to Bee for it. He hadn't intended for things to take the same route they had the first time. He'd just wanted to hide out and relax, but one thing had led to another, and the next thing Sam knew, he was scrubbing himself in the washracks. And he'd just finished up destroying the evidence and had stepped out into the corridor to go back to his room when Jazz found him.

"Hey, Sam!" the older mech greeted brightly as he sauntered over.

Sam, whose back was still to him, fought not to grimace. "Hey, Jazz."

Only it wasn't nearly as enthusiastic. But it didn't keep Jazz from grinning as he matched pace. Something that wasn't as difficult for him as most because he was the closest to Sam's own height.

"Ya got a minute?" Jazz asked as they turned the corner.

He waved towards one of the doors, and Sam belatedly figured out that he'd been set up. They were all of ten feet from Jazz's room, and it didn't take a genius to realize that he was already outmaneuvered. He didn't really want to go, but Sam couldn't think of an excuse not to fast enough.

Instead, he just let out a little sigh and walked over. Jazz was even nice enough to open the door for him as he brushed by. The youngling hadn't been there for nearly a week, not since just before that weird conversation about interfacing. And Jazz set a gentle hand on his shoulder, steering him over to a chair. Sam didn't sit though and just stood there with an arm over his chest as the other dangled loosely.

It was surprisingly neat inside. Doubly so when one considered who lived there. Jazz didn't seem the type to be fastidious about his stuff. Nor did Blue, his roommate. But their room was something between tidy and lived in. Posters and pictures lined the painted walls with a flat-screen TV on the left. There was a couch along the opposite wall beside two chairs and a table set up in the right-hand corner. The rest of the furniture was balanced in the realm of functional without being overcrowded. A desk by the back wall next to the single berth, which was just the perfect size for two normal-sized occupants, much less someone with Jazz's height plus his more-than-a-friend.

It looked just the same as it had the last time Sam was here, watching the latest Michael Bay movie. The script might've been written by a five-year-old, but the man did know his explosions. The perfect mind-numbing activity. What he wouldn't give to go for some of that right now.

The youngling was wishing for that as he glanced around the room. Jazz had yet to say anything, an oddity for him since he normally wouldn't shut up. But it was probably just a diversionary tactic, something meant to make Sam more likely to spill his proverbial guts and confess to whatever it was Jazz thought he'd done. Or had done to him, more likely.

Sam shifted from one foot to the other with that thought, and he attempted to not seem guilty. He steadfastly didn't look at the mech beside him, and instead, his optics traced the pictures on the wall. Photos of Jazz and Blue and other bots they knew. Prowl showed up the most often. Followed by Optimus, Bee, and the twins. There were even a few shots with Blaster in them, but those looked newer than the others. One had Ratchet and Mirage arm in arm, surrounded by an alien landscape, and several pictures had bots Sam had never met before. Mostly mechs but the occasional femme, too. He briefly wondered if any of them would ever show up on Earth, if they were even still alive.

And finally, having looked at each of the photos in turn, his attention went back to Jazz. Who still had yet to speak. Seriously, this was getting a bit tiresome. Sam did have other stuff he wanted to do today.

"You wanted to talk," the youngling finally prompted him. "So talk."

That just made Jazz sigh and put a hand on his hip. "Yer not makin' this any easier, ya know."

True. But not his fault this time.

"Um… I'm sorry?"

Only it came out as more of a question. Jazz sighed through his intakes again. He gazed at Sam for another long moment, as if trying to decide the best line of attack. But the youngling could hazard a guess what he wanted to talk about, and Sam decided to head this one off at the pass. It was less messy that way.

"Soundwave didn't molest me," the youngling informed him. "He honestly didn't."

Jazz gaped at him for a split second. "That's… good to know."

But it was said with a dubious voice. Still not believing. Which was supremely annoying now that Sam thought about it. Yeah, he wasn't handling things very well, but did they all think he was a liar now, too? He wouldn't lie about that. He wouldn't!

"He didn't," Sam repeated. "His freaky friends didn't either. I'm not lying," he added when the lieutenant didn't say anything.

Jazz held up his hands. "I didn't say ya were."

"You were thinking it," Sam shot back, vaguely insulted.

Jazz just looked at him again. He opened his mouth but immediately shut it, acting like he'd rethought what he was about to say. Instead, he simply stood there. Jazz just looked at Sam, who was looking right back at him with a lifted chin.

"Ya know… bein' dead sucks," Jazz commented suddenly, "and bein' alive ain't much better."

Sam made a noncommittal noise. It was a complete non sequitur, and honestly, how was he supposed to respond to that?

But thankfully, Jazz didn't give him the chance.

"What really sucked was bein' neither," he continued. "Was bein' trapped in my body. Knowin' what was goin' on around me and not able to do a slaggin' thing at all." Jazz crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head back for a second before looking his friend straight in the optics. "D'you have any idea how awful it is just layin' there, unable ta move? Unable ta do anythin'? Just bein' like that fer years?"

Sam felt his spark sink, even as his indignation deflated. "I guess that it was pretty bad," he admitted and shrugged.

"Horrible." Jazz had to fight back a shudder. "I knew that bots were movin' around me. Couldn't see them, but I could hear 'em. Feel 'em. But I just couldn't do anythin'." He looked at Sam with something unnamable on his face. "Ya and Blue were a lifeline. Comin' in there ta talk ta me. It meant a lot ta me. Still does."

He glanced away, studying one of the pictures on his wall. Just looking at Blue grinning back at him.

"It was… _bad_. Not the worst thing ta ever happen ta me. But it was up there." He waited to let that sink in. "The point I'm tryin' ta make is that it could've been a lot worse, and even though it wasn't, I still needed help after that. Still do, in fact. I still need my friends an' family ta help me out. Ta help me feel more like me again. And there isn't anythin' wrong with that. Nothing at all." He glanced back over to Sam. "Ya hear me?"

The youngling didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know if he should simply nod or do something more than stand there awkwardly as Jazz continued to look at him. The lieutenant thankfully took the decision from him when he suddenly grinned and clapped Sam on the shoulder.

"I've got a present fer ya," he announced a second later in yet another non sequitur.

Sam flickered his optics in a bot blink. "Jazz, you didn't have to…" he started to say.

He was interrupted, however, as Jazz pulled out something from that mysterious subspace pocket all of the older bots had. The object was small and thin. Thankfully unwrapped. But Sam could only stare as Jazz gently set it in his closest hand.

It was his picture of Mikaela. The very same one he'd thrown at Ratchet right after the debacle about the video. He'd searched the hall for it afterwards but had only found evidence of the broken glass. And here it was. Complete with new frame and everything. Sam was even willing to bet that it was unbreakable this time. Just in case.

"I… Thank you," the youngling breathed after he'd studied her smiling face for what felt like the first time in forever. "I mean it. I looked everywhere for this."

"I figured," Jazz replied easily enough. "But I thought that I'd freshen it up fer ya a bit. She deserves ta be in a nice frame and not have all that broken glass hangin' around. Ya should take better care of her, ya know"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, still looking at her beautiful smile. "I should."

He finally glanced up to see Jazz watching him with a peculiar expression. His optics were completely covered, but Sam still knew that they were focused on him to the near exclusion of everything else.

"I know ya miss her, but yer not alone. Ya know that we're here fer ya, don't ya?" Jazz questioned then, voice very soft. "That ya can tell us anythin'. Ya can tell _me_ anythin'. Anythin' at all. And I won't judge."

He reached out to set a hand on Sam's arm and gave a squeeze. The youngling didn't shift backwards, but it was a near thing.

"I'm fine, Jazz," he managed and ran a hand over his head. "Really. I am. Soundwave and his goons didn't do anything more to me than the obvious." He gazed at Mikaela again before turning back. "They never touched me in my special places. They honestly didn't. And I'd appreciate it if you told everybody else that."

Jazz searched his face for a long time. Assessing and weighing and finally giving a nod.

"Yer sure?" the lieutenant asked.

"Positive." Sam gifted him with a tired smile. "I think I would've noticed it if they had, and they wouldn't have let me forget it either."

A sad but very true fact. One that Jazz acknowledged with another and far sharper nod.

"I'll let 'em know then," he responded after a tick.

Sam's smile brightened just a bit. "Please do. I insist."

His thumb stroked over the glass of Mikaela's picture. It didn't even leave a streak or scratch the surface. Definitely the good stuff then.

"Thanks again," Sam told Jazz. "I mean it."

He lingered for a minute more before starting to edge for the door. It was pretty apparent that Jazz had said what he wanted to say, and there wasn't much reason to stick around. He'd made it all the way through the door and into the hallway proper before the older mech spoke again.

"Yer still my favorite minibot," Jazz called after him.

Sam nearly misstepped but kept going. He did, however, give a wave as he walked away.

\-----  
  
Sometime later, Sam's almost-good mood and fortune plummeted to the depths of really pissed off. He strode down the hallway, whipped around the corner, marched over to his door and into the middle of his room. It took a second for his optics to find his target, and Sam pointed his finger at First Aid, who was innocently reading on his berth. He lifted his chin, formed his best glare, and then spoke in his most indignant and authoritative voice. 

"You're _not_ erasing my mind!"

Aid sat up so quickly that he nearly launched off his berth. He stared, flabbergasted, for a few ticks before his processor caught up completely.

" _What?_ "

Sam glowered at him in utter disbelief. As if he didn't know.

"Giving me a memory wipe!" he bit out and jabbed his index finger towards Aid's chassis, which was sadly optic-level. "You're not doing that! I don't care how messed up I am!"

First Aid's optics flashed nearly white. And it took Sam a moment to realize that they were blazing with anger. The youngling himself was incensed, vexed even. Perhaps even a twinge nervous and afraid. Aid, however, was absolutely furious.

"Who?" the older mech nearly demanded, now on his feet and towering over his much shorter roommate. "Who told you this? Who said such a horrible lie?"

Sam suddenly withered like a triple changer confronted by Optimus Prime. He had a brief second to wonder if Ratchet was Aid's creator and not just his teacher. Or maybe the younger medic had been spawned from the Unmaker himself. Since really, he'd never seen the mild-mannered and good-natured First Aid look so homicidal. He half-expected hellfire and brimstone and the gateway to the pit itself to open up right there beside them.

When it didn't, Sam was left with only the option of answering.

"I… uh… I overheard them talking in the rec room." He fought not to cringe back as Aid's optics glowed even brighter.

The youngling might be annoyed and even infuriated with Cliffjumper, Air Raid, and Powerglide. But looking at Aid now, there was no way Sam was pointing the medic their direction. Not if he wanted them to live. And honestly, he didn't need the guilt of their mauling on top of everything else.

First Aid reached for Sam then, calmer and gentler than he was seconds earlier. But the youngling jerked back without thinking, and Aid sucked in air through his intakes. His optics settled back closer to their normal color even as Sam watched, and the medic shuttered them for moment as he fought to completely regain control.

"We wouldn't," Aid told him with every ounce of sincerity his voice could hold. "We would never do that you. I swear that we wouldn't."

His tone was firm but not too fearsome, trying his best to have the youngling believe him. However, there was something in his voice, in his posture that sent Sam from vaguely nervous to defiant. Something that made his back straighten and his chin lift once more. That made him look First Aid squarely in the optics and let his disbelief show.

"But it's an option," Sam countered, and he couldn't quite keep out the hurt as he said it. "You guys could if you really wanted. It's something you could eventually decide to do."

"No!" First Aid denied vehemently, gaining back some of his fierceness. "Of course it isn't. You're our friend. We'd never do that to you. To anyone."

"But you could!" the minibot shot back with a flick of his hand.

"We wouldn't!" Aid contradicted. "Not now. Not ever!"

Sam face must've held his continued skepticism because First Aid made a sound that wouldn't be out of character for Ratchet when his patients were being very stupid indeed. One hand spasmed, even as the other went for his forehead and gripped it tight. Sam knew enough to understand was the bot equivalent of wanting to tear his hair out, and he merely watched with his head cocked and his optics narrowed as the medic attempted to think up a better counterargument. It took him a moment, but Aid finally spoke again, tone steady but sharp.

"The spark remembers. Even when the processor doesn't. It'd be like lobotomizing a human," he explained very emphatically. "We'd never do that to a youngling. Much less to you, Sam. It's a last resort at the worst of times. When all other options are exhausted."

That almost sounded believable. It even supported what little Sam knew from his own training. But he still wasn't convinced. Not entirely.

"When bots go crazy and you can't help them, you mean," he added glibly and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You're not crazy, Sam," Aid immediately returned. "You're not. You're just young and hurt and… _scared_. That's perfectly natural and alright." He studied Sam's face for what felt like an eternity. "You've been through a lot in a short time, but we're not giving up on you."

That, however, was the wrong thing to say.

Sam heard something crack in his chest. Not literally but it still felt as if his spark had splintered and scattered in a thousand directions. As he remembered hours in the lonely dark that were interrupted only by his strange dreams. Watching the world through optics not his own. Hearing words not said or even meant for him. Things First Aid himself had actually admitted, his own accusations. That Sam was dead. That they'd never find him. And Mirage and Ratchet hadn't made any statements to the contrary.

And now, Sam couldn't get that memory out of his head. It played on a loop. Over and over and over again. Aid's cries. Mirage and Ratchet just watching. Just watching and not saying anything different.

If he still had veins, he would've felt his blood boil.

"You gave up on me before!" Sam all but shouted before he could stop himself.

First Aid almost jumped back in surprise but recovered quickly enough. "We didn't."

"Yes! Yes, you did," the youngling spat.

But Aid just shook his head in denial.

"You did," Sam challenged with a near-snarl. "I saw it. I _heard_ it."

"Saw and heard what, Sam?" the older mech's optics were wide and very obviously confused. As though he wasn't quite sure what Sam meant.

"You thought I was dead!" he practically roared. "You even told Ratchet and Mirage that! You accused them of hiding that I was dead. That the 'Cons had dismembered and disposed of me."

First Aid's mouth nearly dropped open in horror. "How do you-"

He abruptly cut off and stared at Sam. Simply stared like he'd never seen him before. Like he didn't know the youngling in front of him at all. Like he was looking at a complete stranger.

"How do you know that?" Aid whispered, and all of his ferocity and strength from earlier were gone. "How could you possibly know that?"

"I told you," the youngling explained with a vague gesture. "I saw it. I was there."

Aid tapped his chin with one finger before pointing it at Sam. "No. No, you weren't. That was before we found you," he revealed. "And neither the boss nor Mirage would ever tell you that. Neither would my brothers."

It was then that Sam finally realized his mistake. Finally understood that he'd said far too much. Said things that he should've most definitely kept to himself. There honestly wasn't a way he should know any of this. He couldn't possibly know without someone telling him.

But he did.

First Aid gazed at him for a very long moment, seconds ticking by and stretching out. Sam fought the urge to fidget or back away. Either would make him look very, very guilty indeed. Though this time, Sam wasn't entirely sure of his crime.

"They wouldn't have told you," the medic reiterated then. "Not Ratchet nor Mirage nor my brothers. Bumblebee was the only other bot there, and he was completely out. He wouldn't have noticed Starscream and Megatron doing the tango."

His optics were incredibly intent. Nearly glowing again as they considered Sam up and down and sideways. It was almost like Aid was trying to see through the metal and straight to his fractured spark inside. As if he was taking two and two and getting forty-six thousand and not even thinking that strange at all.

But then, the bots had always been much better at math than humans.

"They wouldn't have told you," he repeated again. "But Bee was there. And you claim to have not only seen us but heard us, too."

His finger was back to tapping on his chin pensively. Sam just wished that a hole would open up beneath him and suck him straight into the pit. That Unicron would tear through the fabric of space-time and snatch him up. Anything. Anything at all for First Aid not to reach the inevitable conclusion that the minibot could see practically writing itself into his processor.

"You could see and hear without being there," he said, and Sam felt his pump stutter. "You could see what Bee-"

The youngling held up his hand then. It was shaking, and Sam didn't know if he should be worried or just laugh and laugh and never stop. Just grab his head and sink to the floor.

Instead, he settled for just talking.

"Please," he begged, "don't say that out loud."

It was the nearest to an admission Sam would ever get. Nevertheless, Aid still recognized it as one.

"Oh, Sam…" he started but trailed off. It was clear that he didn't even know where to really begin.

Sam couldn't blame him. It was hard to know what to do when faced with the completely insane. The utterly ridiculous. With such a fragging, fucking freak.

"You're not a freak," Aid asserted as though reading his mind.

Or maybe he'd said that part aloud.

"You're not," the medic insisted, placing a warm palm on his shoulder and holding tightly. "This is different… _Unexpected_. But it's okay. There's nothing… It's not… It's not bad. It's just a part of you, and you will never be alone."

That same sentiment. Hadn't Jazz basically said the same thing? That they were here for him? That he wasn't alone?

But he was alone. He wasn't really one of them. He never would be. He never _could_ be.

There was a harsh laugh then. Twinged with hysteria that was sparkbroken and agonizing. It took Sam a moment to comprehend it'd come from him. That even his fingers over his mouth and covering his vocalizer weren't enough to muffle the sound.

"I didn't want this," he finally admitted to someone other than himself.

It was frightening and liberating at the same time. Just being able to say it after all these months. Being able to admit this singular truth if none of the other ones. Bee's guilt. His own. How Soundwave and Ravage had hurt him.

"I didn't want this," Sam repeated, and it was stronger this time. "And not just with Soundwave. I mean the whole." He waved at himself and his bot body. "I never even wanted to be this way. This wasn't my choice. I didn't want this."

"I know," First Aid said softly. Gently. Like he feared Sam would break if he even raised his voice. "I know you didn't. I'm sorry."

His hand was still on Sam's shoulder, and he pulled Sam towards him very slowly. The youngling didn't even have the energy to fight him anymore. It was all gone, used up. It'd fizzled and died right around the time that he'd lost his sanity. Perhaps even before then. When he'd first learned of cars that weren't really cars and aliens who were more human than most of the kids he'd gone to high school with. When he'd seen his Camaro stand up. When he'd held Mikaela's hand and looked in those blue optics. When he'd seen his future written there as clearly as he now felt Aid's spark pulsing beneath his cheek.

A hand went to wrap around his back as he legs wobbled and threatened to revolt. It was sturdy and firm but light. First Aid's voice was just as gentle.

"It'll be okay."

He wanted it to be true. He needed it to be true. But Sam didn't dare hope. Not even with Aid drawing him even closer and his fingers soothing out the metal knots in Sam's back.

"It'll be okay," he said again. "I promise that it will."

And Sam tried his hardest to believe.


	18. Diffraction

His optics flicked on that morning, and Sam simply stared at the ceiling. He felt weird. Odd. Peculiar. Strange. But he really couldn't say why.

It wasn't bad. Not fantastic either. Just different. Not how he had before as Sam sat up and glanced around. The feeling didn't go away either. Not when First Aid looked up from his desk and gave a tentative wave. Not when they went for their morning energon. Not when days passed and Sam actually caught himself smiling without having to force it.

Sam actually – kinda sorta maybe if he squinted and turned his head from side to side and leaned back a bit – felt good.

Sure, he was still awkward. Especially around Aid, who thankfully said nothing and took it all in stride. And it was still weird having them all watch him like he was about to break. But he could tolerate it better now. He didn't have the urge to run or snarl or just beat his head against the nearest flat surface. He could breathe now. Well, except for the fact that he didn't _actually_ breathe.

It wasn't the clichéd weight lifted from his chest. And he wasn't singing in the rain or dancing in the moonlight or bursting full of sunshine. But he did feel better. Strangely enough. He felt easier. More comfortable in his own skin. Like a longtime itch had suddenly and unexpectedly gone away and he hadn't even noticed how annoying it'd been until it wasn't there anymore.

Sam felt more like himself. More like the boy he'd been when he'd first met aliens. More like his parents' former son. More like Mikaela and Bee's best friend. More human. Even if he was still in his bot body.

But there was one thing about feeling more himself. He actually needed to be more himself. To act like he was Sam Witwicky, college student turn minibot.

It actually wasn't all that difficult. He just spent less time haunting shadowy corners while angsting to himself and more time with his friends. Sam chatted and laughed and watched movies and listened to music and found that it wasn't that hard at all. That he enjoyed himself when he allowed it and didn't focus on the horrible parts of being there.

And it was rather nice. It felt good to play games with Blue and Jazz. To hang out with the twins. To hear Blaster's newest tunes and see Wheeljack's latest invention. To actually be in a room with Prowl and not have him turn to immediately leave.

It was all good. He could handle all of that. Easily in fact. But even then, even with that, it still left the giant pink and purple Dinobots in the room. The things that seemed to haunt and taunt Sam wherever he went. No matter how much he tried to pretend they weren't there.

The first… well, he wasn't really ready to confront the first yet. He wasn't quite ready to seek out Ratchet and have a nice little get together. To make him talk about all that freaky stuff that'd been going on. Like his optic changing color. And seeing things through Bee's eyes. And well, all of it.

And maybe kinda probably since he'd be there already, Sam should also apologize to him for being such an aft. Yeah, he definitely needed to do that. Eventually. One day. Sometime. Soon.

He would.

But even before that, even before Sam worked up his courage for such a momentous task, there was something else – some _one_ else – he needed to deal with first. Or not so much deal with Bee as with the mess he'd made between them. Sam needed to steer them back into being friends and away from whatever the pit they were now. He needed to stop their illicit _thingy_ and make them be pals again.

Or something like that.

The trick was trying decide how exactly to do it. There were several possible ways, and all of them sucked. Most of those involved Bee's bright and spark-broken optics looking at him with accusation. A few centered around avoidance and an ultimate confrontation. Several more encompassed yelling and objects being thrown.

Decisions, decisions.

Maybe it didn't matter what he chose. Just that it got done. Perhaps he should just go to Bee and end it there. That would be easiest. That would be best.

Now, he just had to do it.

Sam sighed and rested his head more firmly on his right hand. His left toyed with his half-full cube of energon, swirling it around and around in an endless purple circle. Motivation was hard to come by, particularly since he knew exactly where he'd be going when he finally got up.

"You know," Blaster commented then from the seat across their table, "it helps if ya actually drink that."

His own energon was long gone, which Sam couldn't help but notice as he looked up. But then, most bots tended to drink it quickly and rarely lingered. The youngling and perhaps Optimus or Mirage were the lone holdouts on that front. Even Prowl was known to consume his lightning-fast and get back to his busy schedule.

"Probably," Sam admitted as he set his cube down and watched the whirling slow.

"You're thinkin' awfully hard over there," Blaster continued with a glance to see if anyone else was paying attention; they were but no more than usual. "Care to share with the class?"

"Not particularly," the minibot sent back, but his tone was playful and light. Easier now that he knew what to do and his general level of incentive was going up. "Just deciding a few things."

"Bad things?"

It wasn't quite tentative or even truly worried. But there was a flicker of concern. Even now. Even when Sam had been happier and more open with them all than he'd been in months.

"Just things," Sam allowed.

But that was all any of them would get from him. No matter how much Cliffjumper, Air Raid, and Sideswipe were trying to pretend they weren't listening in from the next table over. However, Sam's smile turned a tad wicked then, and his optics flickered to the left as his audience hastily pretended to be engrossed in their own conversation. Sometimes, they made it so ridiculously easy.

"Just planning my angle of attack."

He watched as Sideswipe and Air Raid traded a look, but Cliffjumper seemed completely unperturbed as usual. Brawn beside him, the only one not to seem suspicious, didn't glance up from his energon. He probably wasn't even listening.

Blaster though snorted. "Should I be scared to ask further?" he asked, but his attention momentarily went to the door as one of his symbiotes entered the room.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," Sam quoted and downed the last of his energon in one gulp. It was now or never, and he might as well go now when his confidence was still brimming or at least not abysmal.

Blaster flickered his optics once at that, and Sam slid from his seat just as Eject came over. But he lifted a friendly hand and patted the symbiote on the head in greeting and farewell both.

"Where are ya going?" the red and gold mech questioned as he watched Sam allow his symbiote to curl into his side for a few seconds.

"Got some stuff to do," Sam replied mysteriously and with a wiggle of his fingers. The best way to avoid real answers was to play along; Jazz had taught him that.

"Oh?" Blaster sent back, and his voice was pleasant but puzzled. "What kinda stuff?"

"Important stuff." Sam nudged Eject with his elbow and gave a conspiratorial wink.

The symbiote grinned, and Sam turned and waved over his shoulder as he left. He glanced back at the door to see that Eject had clambered up into his vacant seat and was already chattering away. Blaster, however, was still watching him with a peculiar expression. One that stayed with Sam the entire way down the hallway, around three corners, and up to Bee's door. It was in his head as Bee answered the door with a pleased grin and let him inside. And it still hadn't left as he sat down next to his friend and relaxed as Bee's radio filled the silence. It was even there as fingers ghosted up his arm and over his shoulder and to his back. As his own intakes automatically hitched in response.

It was still there. That look. That hint of concern. Sam wouldn't forget. Not that. And not why he was here.

And really, he hadn't come here for this, for what Bee clearly wanted. It seemed like every time they were along together now that this was what they did, but it wasn't exactly what Sam had in mind.

This was the end. The end of whatever _this_ was. But maybe… just maybe he could do this one final time and really mean it. Maybe he could make Bee feel as if he wasn't just an excuse.

Bee ran his other hand over Sam's shoulder and down to his chest. Sam offlined his optics and let out a little sigh.

"Bee," he murmured, allowing himself to be pulled down.

What he really meant, however, was something else entirely. What he really meant was goodbye.

\-----  
  
Later, Sam slipped into the hallway while Bee was recharging. He should've stayed. This last time he should've at least been there when he onlined, but Sam hadn't done it once yet, and he couldn't do it now. He couldn't look Bee in the optics in the same berth they'd just slept on. 

It was wrong though. Sam knew it was wrong. He did. _Really_.

But somehow, he just couldn't stop himself. Somehow, he went through the door and down the corridor without looking back once. He felt like a thief in the night, slipping off after stealing something irreplaceable. It left a bad taste on his metallic not-tongue. Made his spark sputter with every step and his pump rumble the further he went.

And Bee – Primus, bless his trusting spark – was still knocked out; he always was afterwards. Leaving Sam to lay there awkwardly in the quiet room.

He didn't know which was worse. Staying there in the silence. Or getting up to leave before Bee was even awake. Both were equally bad, he supposed.

But now? Now, Sam was once more slipping down the hallway in the wee hours to remove the evidence of his crime. Only, that was easier said than done. Red Alert was in the washracks.

Red Alert. Was. In. The. Washracks.

Red Alert, the most paranoid being on the entire base. The mech capable of spotting discrepancies that even Prowl missed. A bot trained in investigation and police work. Who had served as a detective for longer than human civilization had even existed.

That very same bot was in the washracks. The place Sam needed to go. The one location on their base where he could remove those oh-so-incriminating yellow paint scrapes that decorated his chest.

This was very, very bad. Not quite as horrible as being captured by Soundwave bad. And worse than being caught by his mom with his pants down and Mikaela without a shirt. But right up there with turning into a giant alien robot.

Red Alert plus evidence of wrongdoing equaled Sam with a lot of awkwardness and explaining to do. And that was not good. That was so far from good that Megatron was beginning to look wonderful by comparison.

Sam didn't know what to do. He honestly didn't. He couldn't go inside. But he didn't have anywhere else to go either. He couldn't go back to his room; Aid could come back at any time. And that'd quite possibly be even worse than being found out by Red Alert. He couldn't loiter in the hall either; someone was bound to come by sooner or later and find him, not to mention that there were cameras. Nevertheless, Sam couldn't and wouldn't in a million years go back to Bee's room. Not and risk him waking up.

The youngling was out of options. He couldn't stay; he couldn't go. He couldn't do anything but shift from one foot to the other as he peeked around the corner and eyed the door to the washracks. Hoping, praying, begging Red Alert to just get the frag out.

But then, for the first time in a very long time, Primus smiled upon him. Of course, that was in the exact same moment that he gave Sam a firm kick in the aft.

Bluestreak came down the opposite hallway. He glanced up. Saw Sam. And came closer.

The youngling didn't even have time to run. He just stood there like a deer in the headlights or an Aerialbot watching a Seeker. He could merely stare as doom approached him with a grin and started to open his mouth to speak.

But then, Blue paused as he really looked at Sam. As his optics went from the yellow on black streaks on his chassis to the ones on his shoulder to the door to the washracks so tantalizingly in sight. The only thing that could've made the scene more surreal as they stood there was if Red Alert had still been singing to himself inside.

Sam could practically see the dots connecting in Blue's head as they stood there in some sort of exceptionally embarrassing tableau. Bee was the only one with that color scheme; Sunstreaker was more golden. And this kind of scrapes normally came from two things alone. Sparring, which Sam didn't do. Berth fun times, which Sam _shouldn't_ do.

Yellow streaks plus washracks plus suspicious behavior equaled something Not Good.

Bluestreak sucked in air through his intakes. The expression on his face was one that Sam had never seen before and hoped to never see again. Blue might be talkative and cute and even cuddly, but he was a gunner – read sniper – for an army that'd been fighting for millennia. He'd killed more people than Sam had probably even met. That took a certain amount of coldness. To shoot someone from a distance and watch them fall.

Sam could see every bit of that icy edge right now. He could taste the glacial bite to the air between them and all but feel the entire hall reach subzero temperatures. But the thing that made it even worse was that none of it was directed at him.

"Sam?"

Blue said it like he couldn't quite be sure that he wasn't hallucinating. In the nighttime lighting of the base, he almost looked like Prowl. Their frames were alike already – they were from the same city on Cybertron and had similar vehicle modes. But this was the first time Sam had ever noticed the resemblance and not snorted at the irony. Only, he wasn't laughing now.

But just as quickly as it came, it was all gone. A slight chill was all that lingered. The sole evidence that Blue had been anything more than incredibly surprised. That he'd done anything more than stand there in abject shock.

"Sam?" Blue repeated and took a step forward.

"You've got to help me," Sam pleaded before he could stop himself. Before he could even think of an excuse to give. Not that there was an excuse or even a real reason why he'd been such an idiot.

There was nothing he could say that could possibly explain this.

Blue gaped at him. " _What?_ "

" _Help me!_ " Only, it was more a begging hiss. "Red Alert's inside. And I can't let him see."

The mech just goggled. His mouth was practically hanging open, but no words formed in his metallic throat for several long seconds.

"But… I mean, Bee… And did he? I don't… He shouldn't have."

Sam was quick to cut him off. "Bee didn't do anything that I didn't want him to. I just… I needed not to think for a little bit."

And yes, that sounded just as lame now as it had in his own head countless times before.

"You should've gone to Ratchet then," Blue interrupted, and his tone was stronger now. Firm as he came back to himself and his door-wings lifted higher on his back. "He could've given you something."

"Nothing else works. It…" Sam stared up at the ceiling, anything not to see Bluestreak in front of him. "It just doesn't. Not for that. I just needed to forget. And well, it worked rather perfectly."

The mech looked at him like he couldn't believe this was really happening. Like he expected the twins to burst out in surprise at any moment and declare this another prank gone right. But that didn't happen, and it most certainly wasn't a joke.

"But… But, Sam." Bluestreak suddenly reached out to grab his shoulder. "It's wrong. This is wrong. You're… You're just a youngling. Bee took ad-"

"No," the minibot cut in. "He didn't. He did exactly what I asked him to do. Exactly what I wanted. He didn't force me or anything. If anything, I forced him."

Sam glanced back at Bluestreak, but he was just shaking his head in complete disbelief. Sam shifted in his hold to grip his elbow.

"Please." And if Sam had to get down on his knees and beg, he would. "Please just help me."

He could feel the mech still underneath his grasp, and Bluestreak shuttered his optics soundlessly before opening them again. There was an odd cast to his face. Almost resigned.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked softly.

Sam nearly heaved a sigh of relief. "Just don't tell anybody. No one else can know."

He could see the question forming before Blue could even ask it.

"But what about-"

"Not even Jazz," Sam interrupted. "Definitely not him. Not Prowl either. Or Optimus. And Primus, not Ratchet or Ironhide. None of them."

"But-"

" _No one._ "

The resignation grew and turned to weariness. Like Blue was inexplicably very tired as he studied Sam. His gaze was almost penetrating though. Looking through optics to see the spark beneath. Like he could see all of Sam's sins laid out before him and found him wanting.

"How long has this been going on?" Blue finally questioned.

"It was just the one time," Sam lied before he even thought to tell the truth.

Bluestreak just looked at him, and once more, he didn't seem sweet or innocent. Not when he wasn't blabbing a mile a minute. And certainly not with his optics narrowed and a bright blue-green that was almost turquoise.

"I'm not an idiot, Sam," he said then. "I know it was more than once."

The chill in the air grew again. Not as sharp as before but the one thing missing were icicles jutting from the ceiling.

"Just a few times," Sam admitted very, very reluctantly. "Only a few."

But Blue wasn't buying it. "Two? Three? More?" he all but demanded, and wow, he really sounded way too much like a pissed off Prowl.

Sam didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. And that was answer enough.

"You can't do this anymore. No more. Promise me." Blue squeezed his shoulder tightly. " _Promise_."

He hadn't wanted it anymore. Really, he didn't. And it wasn't a hard thing to promise. But being faced by Bluestreak, Sam hesitated, and he didn't know why. He didn't know why the prospect suddenly seemed so final. Like locking the door and then pouring concrete around it. Like flinging himself off a cliff without a bungee cord or parachute.

"I… I promise," Sam whispered, and there was an odd note to his voice. He hardly sounded like himself at all in fact.

Blue looked at him for a long moment that stretched out endlessly. But then, he nodded. His hand slid around Sam's shoulder to his back, and the older bot gently but firmly lead him away from the washracks and back towards the way he'd originally come. And Sam hoped that he imagined the way Blue's fingers traced the scrapes on his arm, or maybe that was just the guilt clouding his mind.

"Where are we going?" the minibot couldn't help but ask in the otherwise quiet corridor.

"You don't want the washracks for this," Blue told him as they slipped around a corner and down another hallway. "I know an easier way."

Sam simply nodded and tried to keep pace. He didn't know where they were going, and frankly, he didn't care. As long as it remained between them, Bluestreak could present him to the Unmaker himself.

"Thank you," Sam murmured then, and he didn't dare look up.

Blue's arm tightening around his shoulder was his only response.

\-----  
  
Sam stood outside the medbay. It still wasn't his favorite place. Not for a while now. And it probably wouldn't be in the future either. Not with how often he seemed to end up here as a patient. Still, it was necessary. 

It was time to talk to Ratchet. He didn't want to. Not yet. Even if it was on his to-do list. Right after an abstinence pledge and before a lot of groveling on his part.

Nonetheless, Sam needed it. Needed to get this over with while Blue was distracted and Bee was on patrol. Since the first had been his shadow for the last week, and the latter was just being his usual self. But at least something good had come out of getting caught by Bluestreak and subsequently watched like a thief in a jewelry store. It'd made it impossible for Bee to approach him and lead him down the garden path as it were. Sure, it earned the gunner some very strange looks from everyone else, but that only served to cement the fact that he'd kept quiet about what he knew.

Thank Primus and Unicron both. He'd light a candle for them at Christmas. And maybe one for Passover, too.

But that was beside the point.

Sam was a bot on a mission. Sorta. Mostly.

He was a bot who needed to get a few things off his chest. And make an apology. And an accusation. And possibly throw a few things. And then perhaps get over it.

After all, there was one thing about a lighter spark and not having a one bot continuous pity-party. It gave him time to think. To really think and not jump to conclusions. To put some pieces together that he'd been afraid to even take out of the puzzle box before much less slide around until a picture emerged. And really, once it had, he'd probably been better off just chucking the thing in the garbage.

But he couldn't do that. He also couldn't forget what he'd figured out. And pit, it was a doozy of Megatron proportions. Or more like gestalt proportions since he'd seen the Aerialbots combine into Superion before and yikes, that dude was huge. Sam probably didn't even come up to his knee. Maybe not even his ankle. And he could somehow still fly despite the fact that he made blue whales seem small in comparison and he hated to see what the Protectobots combined into and…

Focus, Sam, focus. Remember Ratchet. Remember accusations. Remember suspicions.

And to put it mildly, Sam was suspicious. Really fragging suspicious.

First, there was his bot body.

" _His form is exceptionally well-made!" Percy all but gushed._

_And really, it was too soon for this. Especially considering the fact that Sam had only woken up in his new metallic shell a few hours ago._

" _We did notice that part, Perce," Wheeljack interjected with a vaguely bemused air. "It was rather hard to miss."_

" _I've just never seen a body this superbly crafted before!" He leaned forward to examine Sam further and traced a finger down his arm in what should've been a scientific and impersonal way._

_But it still managed to be really creepy, and Sam in no way appreciated that. From the look on Ratchet's face, he didn't either. But thankfully, Jack pulled Percy back before anything unfortunate happened. The mech didn't even seem to notice that he was being managed either; he was too busy geekgasming or the robot equivalent._

" _All of the pieces fit together perfectly. I can't find a single flaw. Even on the molecular level. Not even Alpha Trion's work was so marvelous."_

Then, there was his spark.

" _Your spark is exceptionally bright, Sam. More so than the normal bot," Aid informed him._

" _I know," the youngling replied a bit testily. "You've told me before. Even the part where you thought I was a girl. Femme. Whatever."_

_The last was said in a mutter that First Aid steadfastly ignored. He was really good at that, which was both a blessing and a curse._

" _But what does it actually mean?" Sam questioned after a moment of silent scowling. "Having a bright spark?"_

" _It's… well…"_

_Aid seemed to be searching for the right words. Or perhaps the best way to deliver something the minibot really didn't want to hear._

" _For the most part," he finally said, "it doesn't mean anything. It's just a variance. Like having green optics instead of blue. Or even gold in Mirage's case."_

_But there was something in the way he said it. Something in his inflection and tone that sounded a bit too much like a lie._

Next, there was some freaky stuff.

" _I don't understand," Mirage admitted, and his voice was almost too soft for Sam to hear from where he stood. "It's still the same, but you said that you could not match the color."_

_There was a question in his voice, but the racecar didn't voice it as anything more than an implication. Sam really wished that he could see Mirage's face. Could see either of them from his shadowed spot by the wall. But he could only judge their expressions by the noises they made and the sounds of their voices._

" _We couldn't. We didn't." Ratchet's tone was heavy but brittle, and Sam didn't like it at all. "His optic… It changed color after I put it in."_

" _What?"_

" _It changed color after I put it in," the medic repeated. "It turned the proper shade. I didn't even do anything to it. Sam did it on his own."_

And some more freaky stuff.

" _How are you able to block my scans?"_

_Soundwave said it emotionlessly, but somehow, it came out as a demand._

" _How can you do this? Why do they not work?"_

_His voice was harder now. The edge was sharper. Attempting to cut into Sam's mind. But somehow, the blade was dull and did nothing more than leave a faint scratch that disappeared in seconds._

" _Answer me."_

_Another cut. But that was dulled, too._

" _Answer me."_

_And again._

" _Answer me now."_

_And again. Ad infinitum._

And that was followed up by some deflection.

" _We don't have a word for what you are, Sam," Aid answered on a sigh. "Not even in Cybertronian. It's not exactly a common thing."_

" _But there've been others, right?" the minibot asked with ill-concealed dread._

_Ratchet crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes. A set of brothers. But they were the only ones, and there hasn't been any since. This was something thought unique to them."_

" _Until me that is," Sam added dejectedly. He felt a sudden pain at his temples, almost like the beginnings of a migraine._

" _Yes. Until you." Aid's voice was soft, and it trailed off like he meant to add more but then thought the better of it._

" _Well… tell me about the others you mentioned," the youngling all but pleaded._

_Ratchet flickered his optics down as he thought. "They were just brothers, Sam."_

Just brothers his shiny black aft.

Sam was young, but he hadn't been born yesterday. In any sense of the phrase. And now, he just had to prove it. Something he did as he squared his shoulders and marched into the medbay with a lifted chin. Ratchet, as expected, was inside. He seemed to be doing inventory or perhaps was rearranging his tools. It was hard to tell with the datapad in one hand and his favorite spanner in the other. Maybe a bit of both then.

Not that Sam cared either way. He certainly didn't as he came to a stop several steps to Ratchet's left and made a sound like a human clearing his throat.

Ratchet didn't even look up for several seconds. "What did you do- _Sam?_ " He seemed startled to see the youngling but quickly covered it up as he set down his datapad but retained the tool. "Are you hurt?"

The medic's face was firm, but the optics gave him away. Sam nearly felt his resolve crumble at the concern he saw gleaming back at him. He hadn't really talked to Ratchet in weeks. Not since he'd said some very nasty and not at all nice things. It was hard to stand there like this, too. Hard not to cringe like a scolded dog or Wheeljack after an explosion. Hard not to shift from foot to foot and look at the floor. Particularly when Ratchet only grew more alarmed as the silence stretched on.

He would've swallowed if he could, but instead, Sam just lifted his chin. He stamped down on the sudden upwelling of guilt and gave a firm shake of his head.

It needed to be said, and he needed answers. Ratchet was the one to give them. He _would_ give them, and Sam would listen. Even if he didn't like what was said.

"Who are The Thirteen?" he demanded then and couldn't quite contain the tremor to his voice.

Ratchet dropped his spanner.


	19. Aperture

_"Who are the Thirteen?"_

_Ratchet dropped his spanner._

The look on his face could only be described as complete and utter horror. As if Megatron had suddenly risen right in front of him. Like the pit had opened up at his feet to spew out its legions of terror. As though the Unmaker himself had descended from the heavens and now stood before him.

Ratchet's optics had gone nearly white with shock, and both of his hands trembled before curling into fists. His vocalizer worked statically, like he was trying to speak but had forgotten how. And he could just gape at Sam for several long heartbeats before somehow managing to pull himself together.

" _Where_ … Where did you hear about that?" he asked in a high voice.

Sam merely looked at him with a lifted chin. "Oh, around," he replied, but it wasn't nearly as casual as he made it.

That brought Ratchet up short. He flickered his optics before narrowing them slightly. He wasn't quite annoyed, probably because he was still too surprised, but he was rapidly recovering. Irritation seemed to be his default setting anyway.

Ratchet tried a different tactic.

"Who told you?" he questioned.

Sam wasn't willing to play anymore; he wanted answers not more questions. He remained silent.

Ratchet's optics narrowed a bit more.

"Did First Aid tell you this?" the medic attempted again.

Sam was still quiet, still waiting. He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot.

Ratchet's optics were now like slits.

"Was it Bee?" he questioned and took a step forward. "Or that fragger Jazz?"

Sam didn't respond. He just tipped his head back further and leveled his glare.

Ratchet didn't like that at all. He didn't like being challenged, and that was exactly what Sam was doing. He wasn't backing down.

"Who told you?" he demanded.

Sam felt his own temper flare. It was usually close to the surface these days, and with Ratchet, it always seemed to make an appearance. Even now, he didn't want to think about why else that'd be.

"Does it matter?" he asked almost rhetorically before plunging onward. "I want to know! I _deserve_ to know. Who were they?"

"No one," Ratchet deflected.

But it was weak. So fragging weak. Did he honestly expect anyone to believe that? Sam was young, but he wasn't an idiot! He wasn't a moron. Or glitched. Or stupid. And he'd appreciate it if they stopped treating him like he was. If they stopped lying to his face.

"They were nobody," the medic went on. As if he wasn't merely digging himself in deeper. "No one important. Just-"

" _Don't you dare say they were just brothers!_ " Sam roared.

He surprised even himself with the ferocity of his tone. With the way he dared step closer and jab a finger in Ratchet's face.

"They weren't just brothers," he declared, and he didn't even care that the older mech was staring at him again. "I'm not stupid. I know it was more than that."

"It wasn't. It _isn't_ ," Ratchet tried to argue back, but the slight tremble in his voice gave him away.

Ratchet was many things. Medic. Stubborn. Loud. Demanding.

But he was a poor liar. Even Glen wouldn't have believed that one. And Sam just lifted his chin further. He felt his back straighten even more as Ratchet dug himself nearly to China.

"They aren't anyone important."

Something akin to a growl rumble in Sam's chest, but his voice when it came was completely even. So calm that even Prowl would've been impressed.

"Don't lie."

He made a slashing motion with his hand then, forgetting that it was already so close to Ratchet's face and nearly hitting him. The medic was only saved by the fact that he jerked back at the last second, and something like betrayal flickered across the plates in his face. But what right did he have to be betrayed?

"Don't lie to me," Sam repeated, and somehow, it went beyond a command. "Who are they?"

Ratchet just looked at him. He didn't speak. Maybe he didn't dare. Instead, he just looked at Sam. At his optics. The lift of his chin. The firmness of his stance.

Ratchet looked, and then, he turned his head away. He moved his optics to focus on anything but the youngling before him, even as he seemed to curl in on himself.

But Sam wouldn't have any of that. Ratchet didn't have the right to walk away from this. To deny him the truth.

"Who?" the minibot demanded again. "Tell me. Tell me who they are!"

"They're… _everything_ ," Ratchet murmured then, and his voice was so impossibly quietly that Sam barely even heard him. "They're everything to us."

The mech hesitated for a long moment after that revelation. So long that Sam was certain he'd say nothing more, but he did. It probably would've been better if he hadn't.

"They're everything." Ratchet was louder this time and actually met his gaze. "They're legends. Bots who walked with Primus. Who fought the Unmaker. The Original Thirteen. The very first of our kind. All of them Primes. All of them great. Prima and his brothers."

It was now Sam's turn to stare. To gape. To feel his treacherous spark sink even further with every damning word. To barely even be able to hear the next part over the roaring in his audios.

"They're the best of us. And one was the worst. All that we ever aspired to be. To become."

Ratchet's optics were so blue now. So painfully blue and looking right at him. Seeing down deep like he could go straight through Sam's chassis to the spark that had betrayed him from the very beginning.

Sam could merely stare back in horror.

" _What?_ " he breathed because it was the only thing he could think to say. "What?"

Just when he'd thought that things couldn't possible get any weirder or himself freakier, he had to find out about this. About sparks and following in the footsteps of bots that sounded like a combination of every important or notable human ever born plus a hundred or so more miracles under their belts.

Fuck. Slag. Frag. All of the above.

He'd been right the first fragging time. Aid had lied to him, too.

He was a freak. This only proved it.

Suddenly though, there was a steadying hand on his shoulder. It was probably the only thing that kept him from crashing to the floor in processor failure as the world gave an unexpected jolt and rocked sideways. Sam belatedly realized that Ratchet had already started to half-steer and half-carry him into his office. However, his mind wasn't so far gone that he didn't hear the door close behind them or feel himself placed into a chair. But Sam could only goggle as Ratchet knelt down beside him and laid another hand just behind his neck. And it did take him a few seconds to realize that the mech was speaking to him and even longer to puzzle out the words.

"Easy," Ratchet was saying. "Take it easy. Just calm down."

Sam was trying. It just wasn't working. For some strange reason, he found himself the teensiest bit upset. He couldn't imagine why. It wasn't just like he'd had the proverbial rug ripped out from under him or anything.

Ratchet wasn't privy to his thoughts though. Imagine that.

"Calm yourself," the mech added. "Calm down."

He squeezed the junction between Sam's shoulder and neck in a way that felt strangely comforting. It also had the odd effect of clearing Sam's head just a bit and then a bit more when he did it a second time.

"Take it easy."

Another squeeze. A tad better now.

"Calm down."

A fourth squeeze. Then a fifth. Sam could actually see beyond his little bubble world of him, the chair, and Ratchet beside him. But Ratchet's desk was a mess, so that wasn't really an improvement.

"Easy now."

Number six. Or maybe seven. Possibly even eight or nine by this point. Sam had lost count, but the effect was cumulative, and he could see all of the office now. He vision wasn't so tunneled in that he couldn't see the etching Sunstreaker had done of Iacon's skyline that hung above the desk. He could also see the cube of energon that Ratchet had produced from that magical pocket dimension all the older bots had, but the medic thankfully wasn't forcing it at him just yet. He wasn't sure how he'd handle it right now. Especially not with the way his insides had just given a very peculiar tremor. Almost like ones he'd had when he'd still been human and was fighting nausea after something particularly embarrassing or scary. Like face planting in front of Mikaela before she even knew his name or trying to recover after killing Megatron. Normal everyday sort of stuff for him really.

"Easy. Just relax."

He let out a shaky gust of air from his intakes. But his faux stomach was still churning unpleasantly. At least, he hadn't had any energon today. That probably would've made it worse. Or quite possibly better. It was hard to tell sometimes.

"Relax."

Ratchet's voice was oddly hypnotic. Strange since it was usually so gruff. But now, it was pleasant and soft. Just like the fingers that continued to stroke and squeeze the junction between his neck and shoulder.

"It's not that bad."

Sam had come back to himself enough to actually splutter beneath Ratchet's touch. He jerked his head up just in time to see the mech's optic ridges lift.

"Not that bad?" the youngling demanded before he could stop himself, and his tanks gave another funny little quiver that reminded him of eating right before getting on a rollercoaster. "It's terrible!"

Ratchet fixed him with a look of pure disbelief. And that more than anything made Sam calm down the rest of the way. It was so familiar, so typical of Ratchet. So normal even when everything else wasn't.

"Stop being so melodramatic. It's not the end of the world, Sam," the medic informed him glibly. "It's not that big a deal. Here, drink this."

He shoved the energon into Sam's empty hands, and the minibot took it thoughtlessly. He was too busy gaping anyway.

"Not that big of a deal? Not that big of a…" Sam shook his head and made an aggravated noise. "Then why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Ratchet gave him that same look again. The one that clearly said his processor worked at half the speed of a concussed Seeker and that his creators should be ashamed of such shoddy craftsmanship in building him this retarded. If Sam wasn't already as calm as he was going to get, that look would've done it.

"We knew you'd react this way," Ratchet said in a tone that matched his expression. His gaze went to the energon. "Drink that."

Sam made a face but quickly took a sip as he saw those impossibly blue optics start to narrow. He fought not to grimace at the taste but somehow managed another drink under that watchful gaze. It was like being twelve again and having his dad stare at him until he ate all of his green beans, but he doubted Ratchet would reward him with a cookie afterwards. A pity that was.

The youngling kept drinking, and as much as he hated to admit it, he did feel better now that he'd had some fuel. His insides weren't threatening to revolt anymore, and his spark was pulsing almost pleasantly. That traitor.

He was nearly done before Ratchet spoke again.

"It only means as much as you want it to mean, and it's not nearly as terrible as you make it out to be." Ratchet nudged him and tipped his head at the last little bit of energon. "You should finish that."

Sam did, and then, he pulled a face. Both at the taste and at what the older mech had just said. But he supposed that Ratchet had a point. Maybe. If he squinted. And turned his head to the side. And possibly leaned back.

"So basically," Sam came to realize in that instant, "I should just suck it up and get over it."

Ratchet let out a snort. "You said it."

Sam pondered that. Good advice when dealing with the general insanity of his life. And really, now that he was thinking rationally, perhaps it wasn't that bad. He could live with it, he supposed. He _had_ lived with it so far without even knowing it. Why did it have to be any different now? It wasn't like he had to go and tell anyone, right? The only ones who probably knew were Ratchet, Aid, and Optimus. He didn't have to tell anybody else. They never had to know.

And maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't care even if they did. Perhaps they wouldn't look at him any differently. Ratchet certainly didn't; he clearly still felt like he could boss Sam around just fine. Aid didn't; they were roommates and friends. Optimus didn't; he'd never treated Sam any differently than when the youngling had still been an awkward teenaged boy gazing up at them in wonder.

Sam toyed with the empty cube in his hand as he considered all of that and glanced at his feet. He watched them wiggle for a moment.

"Does it really not matter?" he asked and nearly cringed at how small his voice sounded.

He wasn't a kid! He shouldn't be this unsure of himself. Not here. Not now. This was Ratchet for the sake of Primus. Ratchet who taught him how to be a medic, even as he moaned and groaned about what sort of idiotic patients he should expect. Ratchet who'd taken care of him after he'd first become a bot and then again after Soundwave. Ratchet who was a lot more than a simple friend and deeper than mentor.

Ratchet who he could trust. Even if he didn't like the answers he got.

"It only matters if you want it to."

There was a sigh then, and Sam couldn't help but glance up. Ratchet was studying him again, but there was a softness to his face. A gentleness to his touch as his fingers rubbed along the plates of Sam's neck. It was just like what his mom had done when he was eight and a bully had broken his wrist during recess. She'd knelt down next to him just like this and had rubbed his back as the doctor had set it. Then, she'd taken him out for ice cream, and the next day, both of his parents had gone to yell at the school officials.

Ratchet looked just like she had then. Only he couldn't exactly curse out the Allspark fragment. But the sentiment was the same Sam supposed.

"Look," Ratchet began, "Sam… It doesn't change anything. It doesn't define you. Not unless you let it."

"It doesn't!" Sam declared and decided both. "It won't."

"That's fine," Ratchet replied and gave him one final squeeze before releasing. "Then, it doesn't matter."

He stood up and made a sound like clearing his throat. Sam gazed up at him, but the medic was looking elsewhere.

"Jack and I've been working on some modifications to the exam tables and scanners," Ratchet mentioned oh-so-casually then. Like he wasn't purposefully changing the topic.

"Oh?" Sam asked, interested despite himself and more than a little bit appreciative. "Like what?"

"We expanded the functions and added a few surprises for unruly patients." Ratchet tipped his head to the side before offering, "I could show you."

Sam knew what this was. Knew that this was a distraction. But it was a good one, and Ratchet was really trying.

The youngling slipped from his chair and to his feet under a pair of watchful optics. He stepped up to the door and waited for the older mech to follow. Ratchet stared at him for a second before hastily taking a step forward.

"Was some of it built with a certain twin in mind?" Sam questioned as they moved out of the office.

Ratchet didn't reply, but the wicked smirk was answer enough.  
  
\-----  
  
The sun was just peaking over the horizon when Sam walked outside. It was cool out, but his bot body didn't really notice the difference as he emerged into the sunlight and glanced up at the sky. He watched for a few minutes as pink and orange melted into blue before letting out a little huff of air as he slunk off towards the desert. Aside from a stray cactus or two and what appeared to be a vulture, Sam was the only living thing within sight, which was just what he wanted.

Yeah, he wasn't technically supposed to be out here alone. Particularly with the way things had gone the last time he'd been. But it was a bit different now. It was daytime for one, so he should see any threat coming miles away. Second, he wasn't going too far from the entrance; he'd learned that lesson. And third, it was all part of his master plan. He just had to live a little dangerously to accomplish it.

After all, what better way to trap Prowl than to make him behave responsibly?

It was just his week for confrontations, and really, Sam was tired of all this slag. Prowl was too old for this song and dance routine, but he still evaporated like smoke every time Sam came within twenty feet. He was elusive as Grimlock when Annabelle was around or the twins when they were supposed to be on punishment detail.

But the minibot had finally figured out the trick to it. He realized that he didn't need to find Prowl. He needed Prowl to find him.

Sam whistled to himself reached his destination, a rock outcropping that was just the right size for someone like him to lean back comfortably. He settled himself in and started counting, but he didn't even make it to fifty before he heard the door to the base open in the distance. He didn't hear Prowl's footsteps; the police car lived up to his name and could be even stealthier than Mirage at times. But he could feel the shift in the air as Prowl strode up to him. His head was turned away, which was the only reason that the older mech didn't see his triumphant smirk.

Sometimes, the Autobots made it too easy. All Sam needed was the ops schedule and to pick the shift that Prowl would be watching the cameras to walk outside. The rest was simple. He wasn't supposed to be out there alone, and Prowl was too much a worry-wart to just watch him go. The bonus was that Jazz and Sunstreaker were the others on shift, and neither of them would listen if Prowl ordered them to go in his place, especially since Sam had persuaded them ahead of time to make things difficult.

So very easy.

"Hey, Prowl," Sam greeted then but didn't turn around.

It really was beautiful out here in the morning. Night, too. But there was something special about watching the sunrise and seeing the sky slowly turn blue and nearly cloudless. The last time he'd done this with another person was right after the base had been completed, and he and Mikaela had decided to do an early morning picnic before it got too hot. Bee had gotten them up right before dawn, and the three of them had walked over to these very rocks to spread out their blankets and cuddle together as the sun came up.

It was a nice memory. A good one. Among the few that had yet to be tarnished.

The cop car came to a stop just to Sam's left and gave a little sigh then. Sam didn't need to see his face to anticipate what Prowl was thinking, and the fact he could practically feel the mech vibrate with tension beside him only made it all that more obvious.

"Hello, Sam," Prowl replied a second later.

But it was said almost with resignation. As though Prowl knew that he'd been cornered but had decided to accede defeat gracefully.

"Beautiful morning, isn't it?" Sam asked in return. He'd yet to look at Prowl but only because it'd give him an unfair advantage. He'd already manipulated the bot out here, no need to rub it in.

Prowl gave another little sigh, but Sam could tell that he too was looking out at the horizon. Deny it though he might, Prowl did like stuff like this. He was the type to appreciate sunrises and quiet walks on the beach and subordinates who actually listened. Too bad he was only getting one out of the three.

"Yes, it is," he agreed and shifted very slightly. "It's very lovely."

"Very quiet," Sam countered and snuck a little peek at Prowl's face.

It wasn't quite blank. More contemplative now. Softer at the edges. A good look for him. Made him more approachable. More real. More… well, not human but the sentiment was the same.

"That as well," the mech allowed before pausing for a moment. "But perhaps we should go back inside."

The minibot just shook his head. "Not just yet." He patted the spot beside him. "It's a nice view. Come sit with me for a while."

Prowl shifted again. He didn't need to open his mouth for Sam to hear the argument that was on the tip of his proverbial tongue. But it stayed there and didn't come forth. Prowl just looked out at the desert for a long second before slowly lowering himself down to something between a crouch and a kneel. Sadly enough, he was still taller than Sam's normal height that way, but the minibot was feeling contented enough that the realization didn't both him for once. Somehow, something so petty and small fell away as he watched the sun rise higher. His spark felt lighter in his chest, too. Like a weight he hadn't even known he was carrying had suddenly evaporated away in the bright sunlight. Leaving behind nothing more than its rapidly decaying memory.

Maybe it was the desert. Maybe it was the company. Maybe it was just allowing himself to sit and relax. Maybe it was mixture of the three.

Still, it was nice. Quiet. Peaceful.

In a way, it vaguely reminded him of the last time he'd been out here with Prowl. Of course, that had been at night – quite possibly the worst night of his life – but the parallels were still enough to make Sam hesitate. To make him turn inward as the recollection of terror and pain and _whyPrimusishedoingthis_ rose up and threatened to overwhelm him. Floods of memory swelled up inside of him higher and higher.

Soundwave's red, red optics. The creeping chill of Ravage's voice. The laughter of Decepticons as they listened to him beg. Horror. Agony. Wanting to die. Wishing that he could.

But Sam shook his head then and brushed all of it aside. He lifted his chin and looked up and away, and suddenly, it wasn't all that bad. He could think again. He could breathe. Or something approaching it.

Beside him though, Prowl wasn't so fortunate. He was still as a marble statue before a fine tremble raced across his frame, and his hands were clenched in his lap, door-wings held high and stiff. Tight to nearly the breaking point and past anything that would be normal for someone so seemingly stoic. But Prowl was the metaphorical deep waters. The surface didn't always show what was going on underneath, and Sam knew the lieutenant well enough to understand that he wasn't the only remembering that night.

"I… Forgive me."

Sam's nearly jumped out of his metal skin at the unexpected words. He flicked his gaze at Prowl in surprise, but the cop car wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was staring out at the desert like it held all of the answers of the universe. As though it could tell him everything he'd ever wanted to know and all he had to do was ask the right question.

"For what?" Sam finally thought to inquire.

Prowl's hand spasmed in his lap before unclenching and smoothing over his thighs. "For not protecting you. For not stopping them," he added in a tone that was at odds with his words. "Forgive me. I allowed you to be taken, to be hurt, and I did nothing to prevent it."

The minibot felt his mouth drop open in utter and complete surprise. It could only work soundlessly as Sam gaped and Prowl continued to stare at the desert sands. The silence was impossibly loud around them before the youngling managed a splutter.

"That… That's not true!"

Prowl glanced at him at last. His body was relaxed now. Loose. Hands free in his lap. But his optics said it all. They were a window to the excruciating thoughts that raced through his processor at top speed. To the emotions bottled up so tightly inside that they threatened to explode out from the pressure.

Regret. Remorse. Guilt so strong that it nearly swallowed him up whole.

"Yes," Prowl stated very clearly, "it is. It _is_ true."

He said it all factually. Like it was the truth and nothing but the truth so help him Primus. As if anything less would be a lie.

"It _is_ my fault," Prowl insisted when Sam made a noise in the back of his metallic not-throat. "You're my responsibility. My duty."

There was a pause. A moment where even the desert seemed to hold its breath.

"I like to think I'm your friend," Sam replied softly.

Prowl nearly startled beside him. But Sam only looked up with optics far too green and piercing.

"I _am_ your friend," he said much more strongly, and he lifted his head higher until he and Prowl were as close to eyelevel as physically possible. "But that doesn't mean that everything that goes wrong in my life is your fault. Even if you happened to be there at the time." Sam felt his spark give a little jolt, but he forced both that and his memories down once more. "Yeah, I was taken. Yeah, bad things happened. But blame them. It was their fault. Not yours… and not mine either."

The last part was a hard thing to admit out loud. Nearly as difficult as telling First Aid that he didn't want to be a bot or asking Ratchet about the Original Thirteen. But it was something that needed to be said. All of it was. And maybe Sam wasn't the only one who needed to hear it and believe.

Prowl, however, said nothing in return. He just looked away from Sam and back out at the horizon. Almost like he couldn't quite face that truth yet. Or perhaps he just needed time to process it. Time to adjust and reflect.

Sam was willing to give him that. As long as Prowl finally understood, he wasn't in any hurry. He had all the time in the world to tip his head back and observe the few clouds lazily float by. The sun was steadily climbing higher even as he watched, and Sam distantly heard the sound of vehicles moving in the distance. Undoubtedly, some of them were their fellow bots. Others probably belonged to Lennox's men or the humans on base. One might've even been Simmons coming conspire with Red Alert; he usually did show up this time of day.

"Sentinel Prime died on my watch."

It was unexpected. That admission. Prowl's words. They came completely out of left field. Primus above and below, they came from beyond the ballpark, down the street, and across the highway. Sam felt the plates in his face twitch, and he nearly goggled in surprise before managing to school his features into something more appropriate. But he couldn't tell if Prowl had noticed. The lieutenant's gaze was distant. Unseeing. Lost in things that Sam couldn't grasp.

"I was his guard. His… friend," Prowl admitted in a murmur. "But he was killed. He died, and I was powerless to stop it. I could only watch as his life slipped away."

His optics were dark pools, so deep a blue that they were nearly purple. Yet, there was a glassy quality to them, too. Almost like he'd turned them off but the light hadn't faded away completely. Like they'd lost power – lost life – but had yet to realize it. And Prowl was very quiet as he sunk further into the sand and rock. Sam could barely even hear the steady thrum of his pump or the gentle whine of his metallic body.

"It was…" But Prowl shook his head, and his fingers curled reflexively. "Soundwave took you, and I couldn't do anything."

"There wasn't anything to do," Sam returned, and he held Prowl's gaze when the bot slowly turned to him. "There wasn't anything you could've done differently that would've stopped him. If it wasn't then, it would've been later. And maybe nobody would've even seen him take me. Maybe you guys never even would've known what happened to me."

The cop car stewed on that. Then, he was shaking his head, but Sam held up a hand before he could get in a word edgewise.

"It wasn't your fault, Prowl," he insisted with absolute conviction. "It wasn't. I don't blame you."

Prowl was too good to let the emotions flicker across his face, but his optics forever gave him away if one knew how to read them. And for some reason, Sam did. Had always been able to glimpse what was beneath even if he didn't understand. Maybe it was a lingering remnant of his humanity. Perhaps it was too much time spent with Jazz and Bee. Or maybe they were closer, better friends than even Sam realized.

"Perhaps you should."

It was bait. A lure to get Sam away from uncomfortable truths. A try to make him see reason as Prowl defined it. But Sam just wasn't biting today. He wasn't going for it.

"I don't blame you," Sam repeated, and his hand reached out to rest on the closest part of Prowl, his elbow. "I never did. You shouldn't blame yourself either."

Prowl made to draw back, but Sam held both his elbow and his optics firmly. They stared at each other for a very, very long moment. A battle of wills that Sam was determined to win. He needed Prowl to understand, but more than that, he needed him to accept the truth and move on. The alternative was untenable. Sam didn't want to dwell on this slag anymore, and he didn't want his friend to either.

And he could see it in Prowl's gaze, that flicker of hope. A smidge of belief that Sam was right and he was wrong, and as Sam looked at him, he saw it start to grow. Larger and larger and larger still until the lieutenant stilled beneath his touch and relaxed entirely.

Then, finally, Prowl gave a sharp nod and looked away. Sam gave a smile that he didn't see before patting his arm once and releasing him.

Silence came again, but it was comfortable this time. Just two friends sitting out and watching the desert around them as it gradually heated up to sweltering. That didn't bother Sam as the coolness hadn't earlier. One benefit of being an alien robot, he supposed. Besides, the company was good, and anything else seemed insignificant in comparison. Though Sam did wonder if Prowl had somewhere to be, if he should get back to ops. He was doing most of the prep work for the new ship that was supposedly coming in the next few weeks. One they'd been anticipating since even before Blaster, Hound, and Mirage had shown up. Not that Sam knew much about that or anything. He'd been sorta avoiding ops since the last memorable – read disastrous – time he'd been there.

But Prowl would know. He was undoubtedly knee deep and sinking fast in getting everything ready. Despite that though, he made no moves to leave or even stand. Maybe he felt it important enough to stay. Or maybe he just wanted some quiet time, too.

"Spectrum," Prowl said softly, still looking at the desert.

It was just Sam's day to be surprised. Or perhaps Prowl secretly reveled in randomly throwing out things like that.

"What?" the minibot asked. Since really, this one was beyond him.

"Spectrum," Prowl repeated, and yes, there was a very suspicious curl to the corner of his mouth. "A name for you. For the government papers."

It took him a second, but Sam finally caught on. Truthfully though, he was rather surprised by the suggestion. Prowl hadn't joined in with the others when they'd spouted off their ideas, so why would he do it now?

The youngling felt his optics rapidly shutter and then open of their own accord. Once. Twice. A third time.

"Why that?"

The curl at Prowl's mouth twitched. He didn't need to look at Sam for the minibot to know that he was amused.

"Why not?" the police car poised, tone a smidgeon too smooth. "It fits you."

He waited to see what Sam would say. But the youngling just blinked yet again.

"Spectrum," Prowl explained then. "It encompasses the whole. Every part as it comes together. Almost a crossroads between seemingly disparate things that makes them something complete and unique."

Sam gaped at him. That was… It was… Strangely poetic. Especially for Prowl. And it was weird to think that Prowl had put that much effort and thought into it. And really, it was pretty fragging obvious that he had. Even Sam himself hadn't cared up to this point. It was just another thing to separate him further from his old life. His name was all he truly had left of that naïve boy who'd first bought a Camaro. Not to mention that he'd been distracted by everything else, and it'd been lost in the shuffle. Had ranked so far down on his priorities that he would've forgotten about it entirely except for the twins shouting suggestions at random intervals.

Still, there was a certain ring to it, a certain resonance. It wasn't just something that Sam would tolerate.

"I like it," he decided then, and it was the truth.

Prowl tilted his head in a pleased movement. "Good."

He watched as Sam mouthed the word to himself as though trying it out. And he was still watching when the minibot turned back to him.

"Thanks," Sam said then. "I mean it. Spectrum. Much better than anything I came up with my own."

"Not to mention Sideswipe's colorful attempts," Prowl commented dryly.

But Sam could tell that he was equal parts contented and amused both. He was even smiling outright now; it was a good thing to see. Prowl didn't smile nearly often enough, and Sam hadn't seen him do it since before Soundwave. In a way, it reminded him of Mikaela's when they'd gone from lovers to best friends, soft around the edges but all the more meaningful.

"His weren't even the worst of the lot either," Sam shot back. "I could mention some that Jazz gave, but I don't think that my poor processor could handle it."

Prowl made a snide comment in return, but the smile was still there. Sam grinned back and settled in with a snappy comeback. Somehow, that degenerated to a something bordering on a good-natured tirade about various miscreants around the base and then spiraled off from there. Sam was still grinning as it morphed into a talk about past pranks, and he found himself being lulled by the sound of Prowl's voice. He offlined his optics to the lilt of his words and settled in as they washed over him. He didn't even realize that Prowl watched him with a soft smile as he spoke, and Sam fell into recharge to the middle of a story about meeting Jazz for the very first time.

He woke sometime later to the soft sounds of Prowl talking above him. Sam didn't know how long he'd been out, but the metal of his body had cooled considerably, and it'd probably be quite chilly for any human had they been nearby. Sam wasn't all that groggy, but his optics were slow in flicking on, especially after he heard Prowl speak again.

"-is recharging," the lieutenant said in a near whisper.

There was a murmured response that was so soft even Sam's super bot senses couldn't hear it, but he thought the second voice might've been Optimus. His optics came on to find the rapidly darkening desert around him. Some time had passed, hours at the very least, and the sun had already set. The youngling felt a flash of shock that he'd been out that long and that Prowl was still sitting beside him, but he made no move to rise or to even wake Sam. Though it was possible he had noticed the minibot onlining on his own. A fact that was confirmed when Prowl placed a gentle hand on his shoulder but didn't shake him awake. Instead, he helped Sam to his feet, while Optimus observed with an odd twitch to the metal of his face but greeted him warmly all the same.

Still, there was a hint of unease to the situation; Sam wasn't sure why. Maybe it had to do with the way Prowl almost stood between them. Or perhaps it was the fact that Optimus was watching him with something bordering on hesitation. Or maybe it was really just that odd a day for him.

Not that it really mattered as time ticked by and Prowl finally excused himself to report for his next shift. Of course, that only made it all that much more awkward when Sam realized that Prowl had just skipped a good part of his duty hours and was only now going back for them. And most of that time had been spent watching Sam sleep and making sure nothing bad happened to him in the meantime.

So yeah, awkward. A growing even more so as they headed back towards the entrance of the base and inside by some unspoken but unanimous decision. But Prowl just waved his apologies away as they came to the corridor that veered off to ops, and he gave a nod that didn't conceal the quirk to his mouth before disappearing down the hallway. Thereby leaving Sam with Optimus Prime, who was still looking at him oddly.

Sam gazed back at him before finally sighing.

"You talked to Ratchet, didn't you?" he guessed because that was the only explanation. There wasn't anything weird that had happened lately, and he'd really been expecting something like this for a few days.

"Indeed, I did," Optimus acknowledged. "We spoke at length earlier. He informed me that you now know the reality of your spark."

"Yeah, I do." Sam glanced at the scuff in the hallway's paint that he could see out of the corner of his left optic. "It… well, it explains a lot I guess. I just would've appreciated knowing a bit sooner."

Optimus shifted next to him. "You know why we didn't tell you."

"Aside from not understanding it yourself…" Sam shrugged. "I can guess. It wasn't a good time for me or even to explain it all."

"That's hardly an excuse," Optimus replied and then let out a gust of air from his intakes. "But it is the only one I have to give."

Sam rolled his shoulders and gave another shrug. As if this conversation wasn't an important one. Like they weren't having it in the middle of the hall where everyone and probably Prowl and whoever else was on duty could watch over the cameras.

"Don't worry about it," Sam cut in before more could be said or something that resembled an apology could be thrown in because that would only make this a thousand times worse. "It's done. Over with. I'm dealing. We'll handle it."

That didn't seem to make the bigger mech feel any better, but it was the best Sam could give. He wasn't happy they'd held back, but it was probably for the best in the long run. He could only imagine how much more he would've freaked out had they been upfront about it from the start. Even now, he was still reeling. Still trying to wrap his head around the idea that not only did they see him as their first youngling in like a billion years, but that he was something like a robot Jesus or the cousin of one. And yes, that sounded incredibly sacrilegious even in the relative safety of his own head.

It was very… It was… There wasn't really a word for it. Maybe one day, Sam would find the appropriate way to describe it, but for now, he was just content to act as normal as possible and try his hardest to pretend that it didn't matter. It seemed to be working. For the most part.

"We're cool," the minibot added. "And there's nothing more to say than that."

Optimus made a sound that was both noncommittal and very telling. "I see," he responded neutrally. "If that is your wish, then I consider the matter closed."

"Good." Sam gave a decisive nod. "So do I."

He mentally calculated what time it was then and decided that it was probably best if he just went back to his room. Which had the dual purpose was getting him out of there and allowing him the illusion of privacy. Or maybe Aid would be there and they could watch a movie or something. That was usually a good and distracting option.

He was just about to open his mouth and make his goodbye when Optimus beat him to the punch. The older bot still had that same peculiar expression, but it had deepened somehow. Become more troubled. Morphed into something that Sam couldn't quite read but that still made his spark twinge just a little.

"Sam," Optimus began then, and his voice was low and measured and perhaps too heavy.

But he paused. Hesitated. Poised on the edge. Glanced up both connecting corridors and to the cameras Red Alert had hidden. There was something he wanted to say. Something he wanted to ask. Something big. Huge even. But Sam could see as he stopped himself and backed away; the youngling could only wonder what it was. What could require such privacy. What could be so seemingly terrible. Especially after all that had already been said.

Optimus though simply shook his head. "Our sparks do not define us," he said instead. "Nor do our abilities. Not even our origins. It's all our actions. Our choices."

It wasn't truly what his Prime wanted to say. Close but not quite. But there was still a hint in there. A ring of some truth that was undoubtedly horrible to behold. But Optimus was saving it for a different day. Or maybe he'd never say it at all.

"I'm sorry this was not your choice. That you had no say in the matter. Freedom is the right of all sentient life," Optimus informed him quietly, voice and optics distant. "Even when they choose poorly."

But the last was said softly. Almost thoughtlessly. More to himself than to Sam.

And Sam didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. He just glanced up at his Prime to see him looking back. A moment passed that way and then another, and Optimus seemed to relax and come back to himself. The weird expression was completely gone, and he looked just like his normal noble self. Just like a vaunted but beloved leader should.

"I expect that you're still tired," Optimus commented then.

Sam studied him for a tick, but let it all slide. It'd been a good day overall, and he didn't want to ruin it. Not when Optimus was offering the proverbial olive branch.

"Yeah," he admitted honestly enough. "A little bit."

"I wish you a goodnight then, Sam," Optimus offered with a sincere smile before stepping away.

The youngling watched walk for a second before something occurred to him. After all, now was as good a time as any, and why not?

"Spectrum," Sam called out after him.

Optimus stopped to glance over his shoulder. His face was puzzled enough that the minibot couldn't help but grin. It was an unusual enough look for it, and really, it was too funny to see him seem so perplexed.

"Spectrum," Sam repeated, and it was almost wicked. He never thought he'd say it, but Prowl was a bad influence. "For those papers."

Optimus stared at him for a second, but then, something to his stance shifted. His shoulders lifted as though suddenly lighter, and he dipped his head.

"I'll see that it's added" was all he said in return before continuing on his way.

Sam just watched him go. He was still smiling when he turned for the opposite direction.


	20. Epilogue: Spectrum

The ceiling in his room looked like the morning sky. Like the time between true dark and dawn when the sun was just coming up but the stars hadn't gone away entirely. Almost like someone had gone out just before sunrise the day before, taken a picture that perfectly captured the beauty, and then transferred it to his ceiling.

It was surprising. It was incredible. It was amazing.

Sam isn't sure how this had happened.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He could formulate a theory based on Sunstreaker's presence and the conspicuous paint cans that he was in the process of sealing. Really, it didn't take Wheeljack or Percy to figure this one out. But it just didn't make sense. None at all.

For one, Sunstreaker's work was as expensive and exclusive as the mech himself. For another, he was the stereotypical temperamental artist; it was hard to get him to agree to anything without a lot of groveling or judiciously applied incentive.

Neither of which Sam had done. Hence, the complete lack of sense and the enormous degree of confusion.

The youngling was still standing, admittedly gaping up at Sunstreaker and his artwork, when the bot finally noticed him. Sunstreaker cocked his head to the side and followed Sam's line of sight with a smirk on his handsome face. It widened as the minibot continued to stare.

"Like it?" the golden twin questioned, but his tone was too smug. "Of course, you do. Sunrises are your thing." He turned back to inspect his work with a hand on his chin.

"Huh?" was Sam's elegant reply.

It was almost embarrassing how stupefied he was. But maybe Sunstreaker was too busy preening to really notice that part.

"This was what you wanted, wasn't it?" Sunstreaker repeated with a wave. "Prowl said that the two of you watched the sunrise and that he kept seeing you sneak out to watch them."

"I… Yeah," Sam agreed absently and nodded despite himself. "I do like them. They're the best. I just don't… Why?"

The mech flickered his optics in something like a blink. "Why what?"

"Why do this? I don't have anything to give you in return. I never bribed you," Sam commented, shifting his feet as the other bot glanced at him. "I couldn't get any blackmail like Bee did."

"Blackmail?" Sunstreaker asked, and he genuinely seemed surprised before he gave a shake of his head. "Who do you think I am? My brother?" He held up a hand before Sam could answer that, and he gave a frown that wasn't hostile and more annoyed with someone not even there. "All you had to do was ask. Sheesh. I would've done it earlier, but I wasn't sure what you'd like."

Sam felt his faceplates move in disbelief. It was uncharitable of him, but Sunstreaker wasn't exactly charitable either. It was just so… shocking, he supposed. Unexpected.

"I… Thanks," the youngling finally managed. "I mean it. Thanks. You didn't have to do this."

"Sure I did." Sunstreaker was watching him now, but the look was peaceful, almost serene. "I like to paint. You wanted some decoration in here. It's what friends do."

He gave a shrug before inspecting his work again. Tilting his head this way and that. Rubbing a hand over his chin.

"It's not quite dry yet," he decided then. "You should leave the door open; the airflow will help it along."

Sam made a vague sound of agreement but nodded anyway. He'd only stopped on his way down the hall because he'd seen Sunstreaker in there.

"Well, I've got patrol with Tracks in a few breems," the mech announced suddenly. "See you later."

Sunstreaker gave him a firm pat to the back in goodbye, and with that, he was gone. Sam looked after him. Turned to look at his ceiling again for several minutes. And then, just shook his head. He was still shaking his head as he turned away and went down the hall.

The Lennox family was in the rec room when Sam walked in. Most of the humans on base tended to avoid that room except for special occasions, and Sam supposed that this certainly qualified. They were sitting on the table in the center of the room, safely out of stepping range of the various bots that came over to sneak a peek. Annabelle was in her father's lap, while little Robbie rolled around between his parents with his fingers in his mouth, and Ironhide hovered around behind them like an overly large guard dog. Sarah didn't seemed bothered by all the attention directed at the tiny bundle in her arms, and Will just beamed with pride, but Sam saw Hide twitch every time someone approached.

Even Sam got a suspicious look when Will waved him over, but Ironhide let him move in closer than anybody else, all the way to the table's edge. From his vantage point, Sam could see a tuft of brown hair sticking up from beneath a yellow blanket, but it wasn't until Sarah shifted her arms that he could see the baby's face. She was chubby but so delicate looking, so beautiful and tiny, and Sam could only stare as her blue eyes blinked sleepily before slipping closed.

Little Mikaela Lennox. Born barely over a week before. They'd just brought her home from the hospital six days ago, but Sarah had thought it better to show her off before the bots started finding excuses to show up at their house like they had the last time. Her flowers still hadn't recovered fully.

Sam studied the newest addition to their growing family for several minutes, asking Sarah a few questions and watching her smile as she answered, before he finally wandered off for his energon. He didn't really need it, but too many of the bots had diverted their attention away from the baby to focus on Sam, and they'd snitch on him to Ratchet if he didn't get a cube. So the youngling just started on his way over to the dispenser and let out a gust of air in something that was too much like a sigh.

He was stopped halfway there, however, by Blaster motioning him to the table the mech was sharing with his symbiotes and Bluestreak along the far wall. It was out of the way of one holding the Lennoxes but still in perfect position to watch everyone and their brother come by to goggle. It even gave Sam the chance to notice Red Alert stop in with Simmons just as he was climbing into the seat that Eject offered him. Sam watched the Toyota exchange quick word with Will before he and Simmons headed off for parts unknown or probably to go watch the monitors, but he lost them when Blaster interrupted to plop down a cube of energon directly in front of him and fixed him with an edged grin that didn't suite him at all.

Mother hens, the lot of them. Particularly when Blue gave him a smile, door-wings all but flapping behind him, and used his index finger to nudge the energon closer. But it wasn't until Steeljaw and Rewind made moves to offer him a second and third cube that Sam conceded defeat.

The youngling reached for his energon and sipped it with all the good grace he could muster, listening to his tablemates blather on about the latest gossip around the base. It was the usual stuff really. Which mech was seen leaving someone else's room. Who was feuding. Sideswipe's latest prank. Even some about baby Mikaela.

Sam just let the conversation wash over him as he tried to drink down his energon and not actually taste it at the same time. It was a rather difficult thing, but he managed it well enough to finish the cube and defend himself from grinning attempts to give him more. Blue chuckled at him happily, while Blaster just tipped his head and hand in mock salute. The symbiotes laughed among themselves when Sam pulled a face, and Blaster used the opportunity to launch into a story about a recent prank gone wrong he'd witnessed just that morning. Some counterattack of Air Raid, Streetwise, and Powerglide against the twins. He'd just gotten to the part where Blades and Slingshot were dragged into the mess when Sam felt an odd tingling in his chest. The youngling puzzled over that for a few seconds until an odd sense of awareness had him glancing at the door to the rec room.

Bumblebee was standing just inside the doorway, and their optics met like opposite ends of the magnet being drawn together. Bee looked at him; Sam looked at Bee. But then, Bee's attention slid over to Blaster and then to Bluestreak. There, he froze, and Sam actually saw Bee startle in surprise. He couldn't help the way his own gaze cut to Blue then or the subsequent jolt he felt in his spark.

Sure, Blue's face was still holding an easy smile, but his optics were unexpectedly hard. Not quite glaring. But there was something unforgiving to them. Something sharp and cold. Something knowing and very, very displeased.

It was there for just an instant. Barely a flicker of time. Gone so quickly that Sam was almost certain he'd imagined the whole thing were it not for the way Bee abruptly turned around and headed back out the door, and it was long gone by the time Blue came back to the conversation. If Blaster had noticed though, he didn't even miss a beat, and his symbiotes said nothing either. But Sam had seen, and he felt a prickle of guilt creep down his back like icy tendrils. Something equally bad sat hot and heavy on the energon he'd just consumed, and even the conclusion of Blaster's story wasn't enough to ease the queasy feeling inside of him.

Fortunately, it dissipated by the time Sam had to leave for ops. He pushed away from the table with something like an exhale and a few sad noises from Eject and Rewind. The youngling offered them all a smile before heading off, sidestepping Cliffjumper as he exited and heading down the busy main hallway.

Ops was a hive of activity when he arrived. Sideswipe was manning the comm. station with Jazz at the one right next to him. Prowl stood behind them both, looking at something on a datapad. Optimus was off to the side as he spoke in soft tones to Fireflight and Hound. Various other bots were interspersed throughout the room, and as Sam glanced around, he realized that he'd never seen so many in there at one time.

"Hey, guys," Sam greeted and received a veritable chorus in response. "What's going on?"

"Jus' getting' ready for Kup an' his crew. They'll be here soon," Jazz told him with an excited wave to come over. "He's got a lotta bots with him. A lotta friends we haven't seen in a long, long time."

Sam meandered up to stand between Jazz and Sides, squinting at the work station. It was still a confusing mass of buttons, displays, and diagrams, and not even Prowl's lessons had done much to clarify any of it. Luckily though, Jazz seemed to realize his complete befuddlement and pointed to a screen directly in front of him. Sam could only assume that the green and blue colors were a good sign.

"Sweet. Anyone you know?" Sam questioned as Prowl shifted closer to him.

Jazz gave a low chuckle. He was thankfully interrupted by Prowl before he could even respond.

"Indeed. There are several bots among our personal acquaintance and a few I know through reputation only," the police car cut in, giving an odd flutter of his door-wings. "Among them are Grapple and Hoist, two mechs very experienced with construction. They will be overseeing the new base we plan to build."

Sam made an interested noise. "The one on the East coast?"

"Indeed," Prowl replied with a hint of satisfaction. "They will be in charge of that project."

"Pff," Sideswipe interrupted then, and he turned in his chair to fix them both with a grin that was very wide. "Who cares about them? Tell Sam about the femme."

Prowl lifted an optic ridge, but a frown tugged at his metal lips. His head was held high, chin lifted, and his optics were a shade too blue.

"I hardly think Arcee is of much concern to him," the lieutenant stated in a clipped tone. "Besides, I believe she is rather out of your league, and her sparkmates would undoubtedly dislike any attempts on your part."

That only made Sides laugh.

"Awwwwwwww, Prowl. Are you jealous?" he questioned, smile turning pleased. His hand snuck out to rest against the cop car's side, and his fingers gave a subtle stroke. "You know you're the only one for us, and I didn't even mention trying for her. I just thought Sam'd like to know. He's never seen a femme before. It'd be awkward if he stared."

Prowl's door-wings fanned behind him. That more than anything gave away his embarrassment. Still, he didn't push off Sideswipe's hand or even step away from it. He made a noncommittal sound that Sam didn't bother to translate; the youngling honestly wasn't sure he wanted to know. Instead, he turned his attention to getting the conversation back on track.

"So they'll be here soon, right?" he asked the room in general, and yes, he was studiously not looking at either mech in front of him.

Optimus fortunately provided the perfect distraction as he stepped over to stand by Prowl.

"Yes," the boss bot inserted without a glance at either of his subordinates, but it was quite obvious he noticed when Sideswipe finally pulled back. "The other vessel won't be here for a while, however."

Sam felt his optics flicker in surprise. "There's another ship?" He tried to remember if he'd heard them mention it before but was drawing a blank.

"Yep," Jazz piped up from the left. "Arcee won't be 'lone fer long, but it's still far out there. Won't get here fer a couple years at least. Maybe two. Could be three." He made a vague gesture with his hand.

"Really?" the youngling couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice. "But you've been talking with them?"

"Not directly," Optimus answered instead. "Kup relayed their message, but once they land, we'll be out of contact for several months until the second vessel moves closer."

Sam considered that. "Wait, you mentioned… um… Arcee, was it? That she won't be alone? Does that mean there are more femmes onboard?"

"A number of them if I understand correctly. Including their leader," Optimus replied, but there was something odd to his tone. Something that was almost but not quite uneasy.

Sam was still pondering on that as he watched Jazz and Sides exchange a grin. Prowl just stood there, but his weight shifted imperceptibly.

"Leader?" the youngling couldn't help but ask. "Someone you guys know?"

Optimus tilted his head, but his expression was hidden behind his battle mask. Jazz's grin though was a truly devious thing. Far too knowing and more than a bit wicked. His gaze was firmly on his Prime, who was studying the screens over their heads like his life depended on it.

"The lovely Elita," the Pontiac responded. "And Optimus knows her _very_ well."

Sam wasn't the quickest on the uptake, but even he could see where this one was going.

"Ex-girlfriend?" he put in shrewdly.

The plates along Optimus' arms twitched, and beside him, he heard Jazz smother a laugh. Prowl shifted again on his other side, the only indication that he was equally amused. Sideswipe chortled outright but quickly turned back to his work with a lingering smile the only sign that he'd been paying attention at all.

Sam suspected that there was a story there. And judging by their reactions, it was a doozy. Now probably wouldn't be the best time to ask. But he'd get Jazz or Sides on their own later or just ask Blue. Either way, he was sure to find someone willing to share.

Optimus made a sound almost like clearing his throat then.

"I trust your recharge was restful today."

Smooth, Optimus. Real smooth.

But Sam was feeling generous enough to let it slide. Sideswipe though let out a snort, and Jazz at the seat next to him gave a similar noise. Prowl tipped his head in resignation.

Optimus was saved only by the fact that the comm. station chose that instant to beep. Which effectively distracted Sides at least. The red twin turned to the console in front of him and tapped a few buttons, while tilting his head ever so slightly.

"Ratchet's looking for ya, Sam," he announced after a second, Prowl now leaning forward to read over his shoulder.

As a human who'd barely remembered his cell at the best of times, a radio in his head was still daunting. Ignoring his comm. in general also gave him a built in excuse when Bee pinged him and Sam chose not to answer. Not to mention that he could still pretend that he couldn't tell who was messaging him since half the time he really couldn't.

Besides, no one bothered to admonish him for not answering anymore. If he hadn't listened by now, they all figured there was no real point. Or they could just ask Blaster since he knew the trick to hacking someone's line and forcing them to listen. But he'd only done that the one time. They probably thought Sam would learn eventually or just drive them all completely nuts trying to reach him.

Like now for example.

"What does he want?" Sam asked with something like resignation. Ratchet knew that today was his day to be in ops, so it couldn't mean anything good for him to be pinged.

Prowl was the one to reply though. "He… requires your assistance," the lieutenant managed with a vague pause.

The minibot was already suspicious. That only doubled it. Tripled it even as Sideswipe cast a look behind him with an odd expression on his face.

"Ratchet requires or Aid says he requires?" Sam questioned skeptically.

Sides said nothing. Prowl's face was completely blank, but his optics were a tad too bright. That was answer enough.

Sam couldn't decide if he should smile or sigh. There were only so many reasons Ratchet would request him on a day he knew that Sam was with Prowl, and there hadn't been any battles. But Sides was here. Jazz was, too. Sunstreaker didn't usually instigate things on his own. Blades and Slingshot were still going strong, and the other troublemakers were still cowed by their latest pranking debacle.

Hm… Interesting.

"Tell him I'm on my way," Sam said as he turned for the door but not before earning twin grins from Sideswipe and Jazz along with a nod from Optimus.

Sure, he could've sent the message himself. But where was the fun in that?

Prowl flicked a door-wing in response, and Sam gave a wave as he slipped out the door. The journey to Ratchet's domain was short, but he was delayed when he followed a theory and took the shortcut by Wheeljack's lab. Aside from the black smoke that lingered in the corridor, there were several mechs milling through the hallway, some of whom Sam swore had just been in ops but he'd apparently not seen leave. The youngling peaked in the door as he passed by to see Hot Spot and Silverbolt working their way through ash and debris, but there was no sign of an active fire. There was that at least. Still, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened. Nor to realize the reason for Ratchet's sudden need of him.

Mirage was just leaving the medbay when Sam entered. He offered a soft greeting and trailed a hand over the minibot's shoulder as he walked out the still open door. Sam just smiled at him and made his way over to First Aid as he set out tools and equipment on a tray. Aid's mask was up, but there was something in his demeanor that seemed torn between amusement and annoyance and settled for vague exasperation. It was his usual look when dealing with stupid patients or his brothers when they were being difficult. Only this time, no other Protectobots were in sight.

Jack and Skyfire were sitting on nearby berths, however, both looking sooty and scorched. But Perceptor, who was standing off to the side, seemed to have escaped relatively unharmed aside from the scent of burning plastic that hovered around him. All three were on the receiving end of a tongue lashing that would make any angry mother proud. Though admittedly, Ratchet looked less maternal and more like an avenging angel as he jerked his finger at each of them in turn and hefted his favorite wrench with his other hand.

It was almost comical to see Wheeljack and Percy cower; they were both taller than the medic by several feet. It was funnier still with Skyfire, who was easily twice Ratchet's size and then some. But all three had their proverbial tails tucked beneath their legs as Ratchet simultaneously scolded, inspected, and fixed their injuries. Of course, the first of those three options took the longest, and Ratchet didn't seem anywhere near done by the time that First Aid and Sam had finished packing everything away. All of which was done quietly lest the dragon turn his attention to them.

The three science geeks were tossed out shortly after that with promises of divine retribution if Ratchet saw them for anything short of the Unmaker's return for at least a week. Aid and Sam continued cleaning up, while Ratchet glared around his medbay like it had personally offended him, but he let out a gust of air and actually seemed to relax once everything was put away. First Aid was in the process of updating their files, and Sam was putting the last spanner into place when Ratchet came over to him.

"Good work both of you," the medic said in a much nicer tone than the one he'd used for the last few hours.

Sam glanced up at him. "But I didn't do anything."

"You did plenty," Ratchet assured him. "And you did it well."

He reached forward with the same hand that had all but jabbed Jack in the face, but his fingers were warm on the junction between Sam's neck and shoulder. Warm and gentle even as he gave a squeeze. Sam couldn't help but lean into the touch.

"You should get some rest," Ratchet decided a few minutes later. He gave another squeeze and then released. "We'll undoubtedly have even more to deal with tomorrow. I'll see you then." He took a small step back to rest his hip on the nearest table. "Now shoo."

Ratchet made a motion with his hands that Sam had seen his own parents use time and time again. It should've made his chest hurt from the sheer familiarity, but somehow, it didn't. It only made Sam grin, toss a wave at Aid, and beat a hasty retreat.

The walk back to his room was done in contemplative quiet. Sam greeted the bots and humans he passed along the way, and the door was still open when he arrived. He closed it behind him though and could barely detect the scent of fresh paint as he ambled over to his berth. It was early yet, but he was surprisingly tired for all that it hadn't really been a stressful day. Truly, in the grand scheme of things, he hadn't done much. But it still somehow felt like a lot as he flickered his optics in something like a sleepy blink and lay down.

The ceiling above him was still just as beautiful as before, and Sam marveled at it for a moment. Mikaela in her picture frame nearby smiled at both it and him, and Sam had to agree that it was just as good as the real thing.

He offlined his optics some minutes later when it became difficult to focus. He didn't dwell. He didn't think. He just slept.

He had to be up early after all; he didn't want to disappoint Ratchet or Aid. And he'd promised to have some morning energon with Blaster; he couldn't be late for that either. Not to mention that he had training with Red Alert in the afternoon. Followed by movie night with the twins, Jazz, and Blue. Then up again the next day for lessons with Prowl and maybe some with Optimus. Expanding his scientific horizons with Skyfire and Jack if the lab was repaired by then or helping them clean if it wasn't. And afterwards, learning quatra from Mirage. Followed the next day by more time in the medbay.

Rinse and repeat.

All in all, a busy full schedule. No time for moping. No time for pity or remorse or regrets.

Life, after all, went on. And it was past time for Sam to move on with it.

Even if it killed him.

-O.o.O-

_End of Transmission_


End file.
